


venom in our veins

by rievu



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Vollstrecker AU, found family and tenderness and a good dash of drama, that's probably been overdone at this point lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: Bren Aldric Ermendrud is rather good at his job. So, when Archmage Trent Ikithon orders him to be part of the peace negotiations with the Kryn Dynasty, he nods his head and begins to calculate the most efficient way to do what his mentor asks of him.(He just didn't expect to find venom in his veins that had been living there for years upon years.)// how vollstrecker caleb and shadowhand essek and the mighty nein collide together in a nest of political intrigue (and make it out together)
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 90
Kudos: 370





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i am incredibly behind on critical role, so some things may be wrong or not align with canon. however, i saw some (very old) spoilers again and felt like i was going feral. enjoy

Bren Aldric Ermendrud is rather good at his job. 

It’s not that he takes particular pride in it — that’s more of his mentor’s thing — but he prefers being efficient. Magic is a malleable, workable thing, and if he can calculate the “what” and the “how” to it, then it’s only a matter of execution. It’s a type of utilitarian efficiency that’s gotten him through a number of his classes, and after his classes, his trials, and after his trials, his missions. 

So, when Archmage Trent Ikithon orders him to be part of the peace negotiations with the Kryn Dynasty, he nods his head and begins to calculate the most efficient way to do what his mentor asks of him.

Master Ikithon folds his arms, making the long sleeves of his white and gold robes billow out, and regards Bren carefully. “I do not know who the Dynasty is sending — perhaps they will send our little friend among their ranks — but it would be better for you to take on an alias,” he says. “The Vollstrecker are not quite as well-known, and I hear that the Cobalt Soul plan to send one of their own too. Better to not be found out. Pick a name, whichever you like best, and make sure that our objectives are obtained.” His voice drops, and he says, “The relic stays within our grasp. We are so _close_ to unlocking the secrets of this new magic.

“Understood, Master Ikithon,” Bren says. He tilts his head and runs through a potential scenario in his head before he asks, “Do you know who the Cobalt Soul plans to attend?”

“Likely an Expositor, I doubt Yudala Fon will send an Archivist to handle such a meeting,” Master Ikithon answers. “Perhaps they’ll send that irritating one who ousted Delilah Briarwood or perhaps one of the newer Expositors among their ranks to take advantage of the fact that we don’t know them as well. There’s an Expositor within the group that managed to gain Xhorhaus’s favor, so it’ll likely be that one. I’ll have some of my other agents look into it and inform you when the time comes up.”

A smile curls the corner of Ikithon’s lip upward, and he reaches out to lay a hand on Bren’s shoulder as he says softly, “You’ll make me proud, Bren, won’t you.”

“Of course, Master Ikithon,” Bren replies. His gaze hardens, and he repeats, “Of course.”

He takes his leave and exits the laboratory. Bren makes sure to shut the door quietly on his way out. He’s only made the mistake of letting the door shut behind him loudly once, and after that, never again. He cocks his head and considers the time of day that it must be by now before setting off with a stride through the halls of the Vergessen Sanatorium. 

Perhaps he’ll check on a few experiments of his own before he takes his leave. The scars on his forearms are old and long covered with the maze-like tattoos Master Ikithon inked himself following Bren’s graduation. But still, the experiments with residuum and the Dynasty’s relic are yet to be finished. Based on how much time he spent in Master Ikithon’s office and the location of the sun in the sky when he first entered though, it must be nearing nighttime by now. He does have a few other errands to fulfill before he returns home.

Bren shrugs and abruptly changes the direction of his footsteps towards the entrance of the sanatorium. He passes by a few halls that have screams echoing down them and purses his lips together. Uwelia must have come by to check on some other experiments as well. He doesn’t care for the experiments that involve the inmates here. He far prefers the clean, sterile laboratories and the various arcane tools he can use to test out his theories and equations. 

And Bren would never admit it to anyone else, not even Astrid or Eodwulf, but he finds it to be almost… Distasteful. He’s killed a number of people in his time as part of the Vollstrecker. It shouldn’t be new to him. But it’s distasteful, and he doesn’t care to be part of it. If he is to kill someone, then it all comes down to him changing the circumstance and removing part of his own involvement to let it all play out. Nothing hands-on like Eodwulf’s style. Circumstantial, utilizing the battlefield to its maximum potential, yes, that’s how Bren prefers it.

It only takes a few gestures to teleport himself back to his own home within Master Ikithon’s estate. His personal assistant is already at the door, nervous and whispering, but Bren simply stares straight ahead at Astrid waiting in his foyer.

Astrid is wearing more formal robes that flow from her shoulders down in long, elegant lines and cover the tattoos lining her arms. She has jewelry and makeup on still, but none of the makeup hides any of the scars she bears whether it be the long scar running down her face or the burns lining her neck. She must have just come from another Assembly cocktail party or something of the like.

“Astrid,” Bren merely says.

Astrid glances over at him and drawls out, “I heard you’re going to be a part of the peace talks.” She doesn’t start with any of her usual strategies: no platitudes to ease his mind, no gentle voice to coax him into speaking. They have both known each other and studied under the same mentor who taught these sorts of things to them for far too long to even bother with that. Bren would like to think that this means that they are still the same children from Blumenthal together, but he knows better. They will never be the same, but they are still as close as ever, and he is grateful for that. 

“Perhaps,” Bren replies in Zemnian. He passes over his coat to his assistant before briskly walking past Astrid into his home. He can hear his assistant’s footsteps, but as always, Astrid moves silently.

He leads Astrid into a small sitting room and takes a seat in an armchair. Astrid sits down opposite from him, right on the edge of the seat, and folds her hands in her lap. “What did the master ask you to do?” she asks in Zemnian.

Bren raises a brow and instead of answering the question, he asks, “Why do you want to know?”

Astrid scoffs a little. “You know why,” she murmurs. She’s got the hard look in her eyes again. Bren remembers a time when she used to look softer. Before all the scars and burns and choices that they both made. Bren wonders if he looks the same way too.

Astrid pretends to examine her fingernails as she says, “He’s getting old, beyond his years. And old men will do as all old men do.” She looks up at Bren now. “Have you changed your mind?”

“That’s your own prerogative, not mine,” Bren sighs out. He drums his fingers against his knee and continues, “I won’t stop you if you want to be part of the Cerberus Assembly, but that’s not my own interest, Astrid.”

Astrid was always ambitious. Bren remembers that Astrid was the first out of the three of them to take on their proving trials and the first to go in the initiation ceremony. However, Bren also knows that Astrid is playing a dangerous game borne out of her own ambition. Bren isn’t sure where he stands between Astrid and Master Ikithon. He’s always cared about Astrid, and even Bren will readily admit that Master Ikithon had the full capacity to be cruel in his teaching methods, he has to credit the man for bringing him this far.

Astrid looks at him keenly and says, “And this was never what you really wanted, was it? If I replace Master Ikithon on the Cerberus Assembly, then I could have you reassigned to the Soltryce Academy. Permanently.” Her voice goes soft and gentle as she continues, “You could be the teacher that you always wanted to be.”

Bren thinks about it. That would be nice. He remembers his first few years in the Academy. If he wasn’t who he is now, he thinks he would’ve become a teacher for all the new pupils just like him when he was fresh from Blumenthal. And Astrid knows that. Bren bends his head down and exhales out a long breath. He can hear Astrid shift closer to him, almost off her seat now, but he looks up at Astrid and says, “I’m sorry. That’s not who I am anymore. I have my pupils already. I won’t come between you and Master Ikithon, but that is as far as my involvement goes.”

Astrid gives him a lopsided smile and says, “It was worth a try at least.” She rises from her seat and smooths out her robes. “It was good to see you, Bren,” she tells him, now in Common. “Do come over for a cup of tea some time.”

“Are you heading out for another mission soon?” he asks, still in Zemnian.

Astrid shakes her head. “No, and same goes for Wulf,” she replies. “But as always, that’s up to the king and Master Ikithon to decide. Who knows, perhaps the king or Master Ikithon will send out another Vollstrecker to Xhorhaus.” 

“The last one still hasn’t returned, has she?” Bren muses.

Astrid shrugs, “No, she hasn’t, but if she was trained well, then she’ll take her own death on her own terms.” 

Bren walks her to the door, and just before Astrid leaves, she gives Bren a small, slight hug. Then, she puts on her coat and takes her leave. Bren shuts the door himself before he lets out a sigh and heads to his own room. 

He pulls out a piece of amber from his back pocket and a piece of chalk to summon back the papers that Master Ikithon gave him regarding the peace negotiations. Bren reads the parchment quickly, committing each word to memory. 

Master Ikithon wrote about a group that traveled through the Empire and to Xhorhaus. This group appears to have gained some sort of favor with the Bright Queen during their time in Xhorhaus although Ikithon has no idea how. They and a member of the Tal’Dorei council are responsible for organizing the peace negotiations after some sort of cultist ritual performed in the chantry of the Dawnfather. There’s a lot about some “Angel of Irons'' and “Chained Oblivion” mixed in with Master Ikithon’s own observations on the group. 

Bren sets the papers down and seals them back within the amber before he considers his next step of action. He’ll have to come up with an alias that will explain his own presence at the negotiations and something that will also prove him to be more credible and trustworthy. He cannot ever let them know that he is part of the Vollstrecker. To do so would mean disaster.

Bren decides to begin with a name. It needs to be workable and usable, something that he has to start thinking about and responding to soon. He’s done it before. Once, he had to go undercover to find a traitor to the Empire hiding in Darktow, and he ended up calling himself Philip. At least that’s one name off the table. Bren doesn’t exactly want to call himself Philip again.

He leans back and tests a name out. “Caleb,” he decides. It sounds decent enough when he says it out loud. “Caleb, Caleb...Widogast. Caleb Widogast,” he says. 

Yes. Yes, that’ll do.

* * *

Shadowhand Essek of Den Thelyss is rather good at his job.

Even though he’s only in his first life and comparatively young, he’s been hailed as a prodigy of dunamancy. He has the Bright Queen’s favor and the honor of being part of Den Thelyss, but right now, he worries if this is something that will actually work out in the Dynasty’s favor. Most importantly, he wonders if this will be the event that finally reveals him as a traitor in the court of the Bright Queen. 

He folds his hands behind his back as he asks, “Have you confirmed that this new Beacon is ours or not?”

“It’s from Pride’s Call,” Beauregard says. She cracks her knuckles and sighs out, “That slimy bastard says that they just found it but I doubt it. The Empire’s agreed to send one person affiliated with the Cerberus Assembly and one affiliated with the Cobalt Soul to the peace negotiations. I’ll probably be the Cobalt Soul person assigned.”

Essek’s thoughts race and tumble over each other as he realizes that this must be the beacon that he gave the Empire those three years ago. Three years would feel like nothing to a drow, but he is still young enough to feel the weight of it. Besides, heresy is enough to make any year feel heavy.

“We’ll also be there,” Jester cheers. “So don’t worry, Essek, we’ve got you _covered._ We’ve got a good location and everything!”

Essek tries to hold back his smile, but the corners of his lips tug upwards. He never planned on getting this close to this band of misfits. He simply thought that being close to a potential threat would enable him to extinguish them quickly should the situation arise. After all, he is the Shadowhand of the Bright Queen, and he is _rather good_ at his job. Torture and execution are simply a few out of the many duties that he has to perform well. It seems as this may be one out of the very few mistakes that he’s made. 

(He doesn’t want to admit the larger situation revolving around this one that might, just _might have been,_ a mistake.)

“I will be accompanying you to the Empire,” Essek says. “This is a matter that has the Bright Queen’s intense interest, and for her safety and for our continued investment in this matter, I will be going.”

Jester claps her hands so hard that the sound manages to echo within the rising chamber of the house. “Wow, you get to come with us this time? Oh, it’s going to be so fun!” Trust Jester to be the first cheer. Again, that same smile tugs at Essek’s lips. 

Fjord considers Essek’s words for a moment before he asks, “And do you think the Empire will be alright with that?”

Beau shrugs and answers for Essek when she says, “Shit, they’re never happy with anything Xhorhausian — sorry, Essek — but they’re going to have to accept it. Chances are, they’re going to send some of their Empire people.”

“And will you be one of them?” Caduceus asks.

Beau pinches the edge of her Cobalt Blue robes and purses her lips. “Yeah, I guess so,” she says.

“If the Cobalt Soul is going to send you there, the Assembly will probably send a few of their own,” Nott grimly says. A rare, sour look crosses her face and furrows her brow. Essek’s ears can’t help but prick up at the mention of the Cerberus Assembly. No one seems to notice his renewed attention as Nott continues, “And I guess they might throw in some of their government people just for the hell of it.”

“That would make sense,” Essek muses. “I suppose they think that their Assembly provides a necessary balance to their king and their government.”

Beau gives him a withering look, and for a brief moment, Essek wonders if he’s been caught. But then, Beau just says, “But they’re all _bastards.”_

Bastards would be right, based on the many, many messages between himself and the Assembly. Most of them are petty and close-lipped. Essek does the same to them.

Jester tilts her head and hops up to sit on the armrest of Fjord’s chair. She swings her legs and makes the hem of her skirts flare out as she points out, “You’re an Empire kid yourself, Beau.”

“Yeah, I get to call them bastards _because_ I’m an Empire kid,” Beau says with a puff of laughter.

Essek finally clears his throat lightly and gets their attention. “I will arrive here on the morrow to transport you all to the Empire,” he says. “We will be staying there for several days as the negotiations continue, so I suggest you pack what you need tonight.”

“Okay!” Jester chirps. “Thanks, Essek!”

Essek turns to leave, but Caduceus taps him on the shoulder. Even when Essek is floating with dunamantic magic, Caduceus still manages to tower over him. He offers Essek a warm smile and says, “Remember to get some rest yourself. Good night.”

Essek’s throat grows tight, and he’s only able to nod. He leaves their house, and once he steps out from under the shadow of their great tree growing atop their roof, he wonders when they all started to be so _kind_ to him. He knows the answer: from the very beginning. Perhaps the real question is _why._ He just doesn’t have the answer to that question yet.

He heads back to his quarters in Den Thelyss with the future negotiations looming high and heavy over him. He cannot afford to make a single misstep, but he trusts his skills well enough to get him through it. After all, he is good at his job. 

He cannot say the same for this newfound sentimentality of his though.


	2. Chapter 2

Bren goes to bed and wakes up as Caleb Widogast.

Caleb is a poor student from the Soltryce Academy that later became a librarian at the Hall of Erudition. Although it would be difficult for a librarian to be involved in peace negotiations, Caleb Widogast has spent too much of his time reading as many books as he could about the lands far beyond the Empire to make up for being unable to travel much. He, if anything, is there to try and offer some sort of wisdom and act as a buffer between Assembly members and Expositors from the Cobalt Soul.

Master Ikithon always told him that the best lie was wrapped up with some shreds of the truth. Caleb Widogast has his childhood in common with Bren, but where Caleb failed to rise to the challenge, Bren did.

He looks in the mirror and studies the stubble that’s starting to barely grow along the shadows of his face. His hand strays towards his razor. Master Ikithon likes his students to be clean and ready for anything. Bren would be clean-shaven, thus Caleb should not. He should probably let his hair grow out in the time that he has between now and the peace negotiations. Perhaps he could go to the Tangles and pick up some sort of potion that would aid the process to further his disguise.

Instead of wearing his immaculate pressed robes as per usual, he looks for the chest containing his disguises. Bren isn’t the first choice for infiltration and scouting missions. Master Ikithon prefers to have his mind working on a number of problems within the laboratory. Bren has little issue with that, but even he’s been out on a fair number of missions before. He kept a few sets of clothing befitting each role he took on, and today, he decides that if he’s going to let his hair grow out, he might as well pick the thread-bare, torn coat, shirt, and trousers. 

Frumpkin watches him change and merely yawns before he jumps off the bed and curls up in the open chest. He nestles up against a cleric’s robe and meows softly.

“Oh, Frumpkin, don’t judge,” Bren sighs. “I know it’s dirty.”

Frumpkin stretches a paw up to bat at the Vollstrecker uniform hanging right above the chest in the closet. Bren pauses to follow Frumpkin’s gaze. It’s a tailored burgundy coat that’s almost the exact shade of dried blood, with wide collars and brass buttons. They all have different iterations of the same uniform — tailored differently to suit each Vollstrecker, of course — but those are worn only for things like hunts. This is not a hunt; this is more of a game of hide and seek. “No, no, we’re not wearing that today,” he says. “Not that kind of mission, no. Perhaps later, if the master tells to go after that group. For now, I am a simple librarian.”

The only thing he keeps from his usual attire is his leather harness that holds his books, and he loops his spellbooks securely to his chest. One is his usual one, packed full of runes for incendiary flames, and the other is a simpler one that befits a poor wizard librarian. The leather is worn to buttery smoothness after so many years of use, and Bren runs the pad of his index finger down the familiar strap. He’s kept this with him since training. 

Bren looks back up at himself in the mirror. With the potion, he’ll be different enough to not be recognized. He glances back over to Frumpkin and makes a soft clicking noise with his tongue. Frumpkin leaps up and pads over to him. As Frumpkin twines around his ankles, Bren packs up the chest and shuts the closet doors. It’ll be the last time that he’ll be in his own residence for a while.

Hopefully, they’ve arranged his room next to the student library in the Academy by now. He already sent a message to both Master Ikithon and Oremid Hass, confirming his identity as Caleb Widogast, and he expects to have the paperwork by sunset. The group from Xhorhas is supposed to arrive tomorrow, so he doesn’t have much time left. He’s done more before with less time though. He can manage.

Bren — no, he’s _Caleb_ now — glances back at the window and notes the height of the sun in the sky. Good; he still has plenty of time to spare. He has an appointment with the Martinet in the Candles shortly before sunset, and after that, he’ll have to meet with Oremid Hass to discuss his alibi.

Caleb straightens his ragged coat — or at least, as much as he possibly can — and strides out the door. Frumpkin follows after him, pausing only long enough to push the door shut. 

He doesn’t frequent the Tangles very often, but there’s a particular shop here that the Martinet along with some other wizards in the Candles favor. It’s an old apothecary built of weathered wood, and Caleb can hear it before he sees it thanks to the numerous chimes that dangle from the edges of the roof. Frumpkin butts his head against Caleb’s ankles just before he enters, and Caleb relents and lets Frumpkin leap into his arms and curl up against his shoulder.

Keona the Keen is already inside and sets a number of half-carved bones before she looks at him expectantly. “Welcome to the Cryptic Collection,” she says as she laces her too-long fingers together. “What can I help you with?”

“The Martinet recommended this apothecary to me,” Caleb says. “I would be interested in seeing what sorts of potions you have to sell.” 

“Ah, the Martinet,” Keona muses. “He sent you here then? Well, we just might.” She drums her fingers on the wood of the counter, and the sound of her nails against the wood echoes strangely within the shop. 

Caleb leaves the shop with longer, ruffled hair and decidedly more trinkets than he expected to buy. He even makes a detour to several other shops that he encounters in the Tangles and buys some books and components. Well, he’s never been able to resist anything in a magic shop. Astrid once compared him to a child in a candy shop when they went shopping for spell components, and he can’t deny the truth of it. Still, he’s satisfied enough with the way he looks.

The streets become straighter and more organized as he makes his way back to the Shimmer Ward, and he walks the familiar path to the candles. The tower that he heads towards is the silver spire taller than the rest. The stones of the tower still shine in the light of the falling sun, and the obelisks that frame the peak shimmer brighter than the rest. 

Master Ikithon always called the Martinet’s tower a bit too ostentatious. Certainly, compared to the master’s tower, Ludinus Da’leth’s tower stands out more. Caleb pays little attention to the lack of a main door on the bottom floor and simply teleports straight in. 

The Martinet is sitting at a table, idly reading through some scrolls on a table, when Caleb walks into the room that one of the servants guides him to. He glances up when Caleb clears his throat and says, “Ah, you’re one of Trent’s students, aren’t you? One of his — what does he call them — Scourgers?”

"Yes, the _Vollstrecker_ ," Caleb says with a slight nod.

Ludinus Da’leth gives him a mirthless smile. “Quaint name,” he says. “Sit down. You’re here to discuss the group involved with the Dynasty and the… _incident_ that occurred in the Chantry, yes?”

Caleb can’t resist the opportunity and lightly says, “The incident involving your annex, Vence Nuthaleus, yes. Some of my brothers and sisters are still hunting him down.” 

The Martinet’s lips press together in a thin line, and Caleb knows that he’s touched on a tight nerve. Still, Da’leth presses onward and says, “Yes, that one. How much have you been informed about the negotiations?”

“I have been informed by Master Ikithon that the Dynasty wishes to negotiate for their relic,” Caleb answers. “I also heard that the Tal’Dorei Council intervened.”

“Yes, they did and that’s gotten Bertrand up in flames. ,” the Martinet sighs. “The king is still unaware of the true importance of the relic, and we cannot afford to have the relic fall into the Dynasty’s hands again. But if we must have a parlay, then we shall have a parlay.” He waves a hand nonchalantly. “The party also claims that there are Abyssal anchors being placed in both the Empire and the Dynasty, which has been confirmed. The main issue remains the relic though. Ensure that it stays within our hands.”

The Martinet isn’t wrong. Bren isn’t the smoothest or the most well-spoken out of Master Ikithon’s students, but he’s still capable of doing a good job. He knows how to manage. Besides, the master probably suspected that the group might catch onto him faster if Bren was too smooth like some of his other brothers and sisters tend to be. 

Caleb nods slowly as he considers the information. If it’s gotten to the point where the Tal’Dorei Council is involved, then he’ll have to step very carefully. “I am to be a librarian transferred from the Hall of Erudition to the Soltryce Academy named Caleb Widogast,” he says. “I have already sent word to Oremid Hass to approve some paperwork and confirm my alibi. I am to act as a neutral buffer between the Cobalt Soul Expositors and the Assembly mages as much as possible.”

The Martinet steeples his hands together and studies Caleb with great interest. Good. That’s what he wants. “The goal is to ingratiate myself with this group and obtain any information that they have not yet told the Assembly,” Caleb continues. “And if I become close enough with the group, I may be able to buy us more time to harness the relic’s powers. I can also distract the Dynasty diplomats and negotiate something that is more beneficial to us.”

Caleb lets a smile curl his lips upward. No, this is not Caleb; this is entirely Bren. _Bren_ allows himself to be satisfied with a well-laid out plan. He knows what to do, how to do it, and how to make the plan be useful for the Assembly. This is the one sliver of Bren that he allows to shine through the guise of Caleb that he wears now, and the glint of it makes the Martinet smile as well. 

“Excellent,” Martinet Ludinus Da’leth says. “As expected from one of Trent’s students.”

Caleb inclines his head and merely says, “I was trained well.”

“That you were,” the Martinet chuckles darkly.

* * *

Essek goes to bed and wakes up as the Bright Queen’s Shadowhand.

He tucks away all of the parts of him that he allowed to grow soft with his newfound friends, and he wraps the robes of the Shadowhand tightly around his shoulders. Admittedly, his robes are bare in comparison to the consecuted souls in the Bright Queen’s court, but he still bears the seals and the decor befitting his office. 

He looks at his face in the mirror and finds himself lacking.

Essek shakes his head and forces him to carry on with his shoulders straight and his gaze forward. He wipes everything off his countenance and leaves it smooth as spider-silk. He has a meeting with the Bright Queen; he cannot afford to let anything slip through. 

He passes through the palace halls with no footfalls to announce his arrival. Magic swirls around his ankles instead: magic so familiar and habitual that he can barely feel it now. Just before he comes to the great doors before the Cathedral of the Bright Queen though, he can feel a pulsing throb at the back of his head that can only be one person.

Jester Lavorre.

Somehow, she’s managed to divine a way to launch her bright and bold messages straight to his consciousness, completely heedless of the time or hour of the day. The messages always start as the beginning of a slight headache before they bloom into the messages themselves. Essek swears that he can always taste the barest hint of spun sugar when he listens to her messages. It’s something about the way her magic manifests itself.

Today, Jester blares her message into her mind as such: _Eeeeeeeeeessek! I know we’re going to go to the Empire today, but I wanted to know if you wanted to have breakfast with us before—_

The message abruptly cuts off, but before Essek can reply, another pulse at the base of his neck announces another incoming message.

_Before we go!! Caduceus made tea and I made sticky buns like they do in Nicodranas with tooooons of cinnamon and they’re suuuuper tasty! Uhhhhhhhhhhhpenisbye!_

Essek can’t imagine how Jester managed to get three discrete words and sounds to blend together into a seamless word, but she did. A smile cracks his lips into a subtle, small thing, and he softly replies, “Thank you for your invitation, but I am about to have a meeting with the Bright Queen before I take you to Rexxentrum.” He hesitates but adds, “I would welcome a sticky bun though.”

He shakes his head at his own foolishness but carries on. 

The heavy stone doors open to reveal the octagonal chamber. The white light is almost scathingly bright, and the Bright Queen’s gaze is just as glittering and hard. The light reflects off her crystal and mithril chain, and her horned crown refracts the light around her, making her look like she’s surrounded in a corona of light. Essek can see why the others call her _umavi._

Essek bows, and his only words are, “My Queen.”

Leylas Kryn considers him, and silence passes between them for a moment too long. Essek wonders if there is something wrong, but then, she gives him a simple smile and says, “Shadowhand, I trust that you understand your mission objectives?”

“Yes, my queen,” Essek says. “I cannot help but ask if you are sure that you wish to maintain the current delegation as it is.”

The Bright Queen nods. “I do not care to have too many of my operatives in the heart of Empire territory so openly and boldly. The group from Nicodranas are capable enough to be negotiators on our behalf while the rest of the agents from the Lens can remain in the Empire quietly.” She gestures over to Essek, and for once, she gives him the warmest smile that he’s seen in several weeks. “I trust you to be capable enough to take care of yourself, Shadowhand.”

The praise makes Essek feel warm and cold at the same time, and he can’t find any other words to say other than, “Thank you, my queen.”

“The ultimate objective is to gain the beacon back,” Leylas Kryn says. She leans forward, and the simple motion sends a thousand rays of silver light dancing along the edge of the dais. Her ageless eyes pin Essek with a steady gaze as she continues, “We cannot afford to lose a body of the Luxon again. Not when it is so close within our grasp again.”

Those words sour on the back of Essek’s tongue. Again with divinity. He’s seen the beacons, touched them with his own hands, and hefted their weight in his arms. They seem less like the empty bodies of an empty god and more like heavy artifacts full of swirling and undulating pools of magic. Perhaps they were filled with souls — something that the likes of his soul has never touched — but he cannot think of them as divine.

Essek bends his head, as if in supplication, and murmurs, “Of course, my queen.” 

With that, the Bright Queen sends him off. The pressure lying heavy on his chest eases only when the stone doors to the cathedral grind shut. He doesn’t waste any time teleporting away. 

He pops into the antechamber of the house, and Jester already is there, waiting for him. His throat goes dry when he sees her with a plate of sticky buns, liberally dusted in cinnamon and translucent glaze. She remembered. She always does.

“Essek!” she cheers. “Guys, guys, Essek is here!” She gestures behind her to the rooms behind her, and Essek can barely see the group gathered around the table. They’re almost done eating, but Jester says, “Come on, we’re not done with breakfast yet. Sit down! I saved the _tastiest_ and the _prettiest_ bun for you!”

“What—” 

Essek can’t even finish his sentence before he’s ushered to an empty seat at the table. Caduceus pours a new cup of fragrant tea for him, redolent with floral and earthy notes, and Jester slides the plate in front of him. Nott tosses him a fork that Essek automatically catches mid-air with magic, and Beau snorts at the sight of the fork, frozen in its flight. Yasha plucks the fork out of the air and places it beside the plate, and Fjord gives him a smile.

He fits into their group so seamlessly, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. But Essek picks up the fork and takes a bite of the bun. The sugar melts on his tongue, and the cinnamon floods his mouth with its aromatic, woody spice. It is a foreign flavor to him compared to something like a sweetroot cake or a beet creme, but it makes him smile. His guise as Shadowhand cracks apart in front of his friends, and all the parts of him, the parts that have grown tender and almost-kind, gleam through the cracks.

But all good things must come to an end, as they are wont to do, and soon, Essek has to teleport them to Rexxentrum. Essek has only been to the Empire a select number of times and all under a guise cast over his violet skin and white hair. It feels strange to go into the capital city without even changing his clothes. Still, he takes them to the location that they agreed upon.

The Bright Queen initially refused Rexxentrum and called for a more neutral location, but both the King and the Assembly refused. Eventually, they managed to negotiate for the Platinum Veranda: an unoffensive part of the city where the nobility resided and equidistant from the Candles and the Library of the Cobalt Soul. 

Essek shuts his eyes and exhales as he reaches out for the strands of magic surrounding him. All he has to do is pluck the right threads and shift the weft of them to suit his needs. The world shifts into a blur, but he spins the magic into what he wants it to be like a weaver at a loom or a spider in a web. 

When he looks up, he’s no longer in Rosohna but in Rexxentrum. His friends — no, he should call them associates now — make appreciative oohs and aahs at the teleportation, but Essek’s eyes lock towards the people that await them. 

One of them is a stocky man with obsidian-black eyes and dark skin. He wears the usual red and grey of the Assembly, and small clouds of dust plume from his joins as he steps forward to greet them. This must be Oremid Hass. 

Another figure is an elf, dressed in the signature blue of the Cobalt Soul. Their gaze is sharp and calculating, and their posture signals a constant awareness of their surroundings. Still, their expression eases by a fraction at the sight of Beau. Beau herself gives a small salute to them and drawls, “Good to see you, Dairon.”

The last person is the person that truly makes Essek pause. He’s human with his rounded ears, and he looks the most disheveled out of the three with his ragged travel clothes and unshaven face. His hair is a dark red-brown, and it’s rather long and messy like the rest of him. A tabby cat sits right beside this human’s feet too. However, the thing that catches Essek’s attention the most is his clear blue eyes that lock onto Essek first.

Recognition passes between the two, however fleeting it may be. He _knows_ this human, knows him like the way he knows the shape of his own guilt and curiosity, knows him like the way he knows his own blasphemy. A chill runs down Essek’s spine when he realizes that this man is one of the very, _very_ few between the Empire and the Dynasty that knows the truth of what he did. 

After all, this is the Assembly dog that Essek gave the beacons to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! i truly didn't expect this fic to get as much attention this quick! thank you so much if you subscribed or left kudos or a sweet comment 💕💕🥺🥺 i appreciate them so so much!


	3. Chapter 3

There are few things that Caleb doesn’t expect, but this is one of them.

His eyes automatically scan the entire group, checking for any dangers and considering how to eliminate them. It’s something that Master Ikithon taught to them all. How to analyze a situation, how to deconstruct it down into its very parts, and how to solve the puzzle of the whole. 

In the case of an emergency, he could just use a flicker of flame and trap them all in a web of fire, or if they have spells of their own, he could turn each one back on them with a well-timed counterspell. They are nothing less than formidable; he doesn’t doubt that at all. One would have to be formidable to enter the good graces of someone like the Bright Queen. 

But then, his gaze lands on the person who can be no one else other than the Shadowhand of the Bright Queen. Essek of Den Thelyss, known among his people as a magical prodigy. He’s dressed in flowing robes that are colored such a deep purple that it’s almost black. His hair is short and silvery white, and his mantle is elaborate, adorned with symbols that Caleb doesn’t understand. 

However, there’s something about the structure of his face and the way he holds his head high that makes Caleb pause. Caleb — no, Bren — has never forgotten anything in the span of his life. His memory is exceptionally good, if not the best, compared to any other student in his cohort. 

When he squints at Essek of Den Thelyss, Bren is distinctly reminded of a certain lord that took the name of Dezran Thain. Both share the same ear shape, and their gazes hold the same quality to them. Thain’s hair is darker and lightly longer in the front, and they wear different robes, but the shade of silver is the same. This can be no one other than the man who handed the ancient relics of the Dynasty over to Bren himself. 

Bren has to shake his head and get back into the mindset of Caleb Widogast as Oremid Hass introduces him. He dips his head and says, “It is good to meet you all. I have heard much about you.”

The blue tiefling gives him a quick onceover of his outfit and wrinkles her nose slightly, but she still gives him a wave and says, “Hi! I’m Jester.” She points over to Frumpkin and brightly says, “I like your cat! Look, I have a friend like that too. Hey, come on out, Sprinkle!”

A crimson weasel that looks visibly tired pokes his head out from Jester’s hood and gives him a single weary look. Caleb blinks at the sight of it. That weasel looks like it’s gone through Vollstrecker boot camp three times over. He didn’t know weasels could even _look_ like that.

“Hey, Jes, why don’t you wait and give Sprinkle a rest,” the half-orc says. He clears his throat and gives a sheepish smile to Caleb as he extends a hand out. “I’m Fjord. I believe we haven’t met before?”

“No, no, we haven’t,” Caleb says. He steps forward to shake his hand and continues, “I am Caleb Widogast.”

“And are you with the Assembly or perhaps the Cobalt Soul?” Fjord asks.

The Expositor dressed in the blues and greys of the Cobalt Soul snorts, “Nah, not the Cobalt Soul probably. He’s not wearing the uniform.” When she notices Caleb looking at her, she nods at him and says, “The name’s Beau.” She clears her throat. “Expositor Beau. Of the Cobalt Soul. Yeah. That.”

Caleb gives her a once-over. She looks like any other Expositor in regards to the uniform, and she has the same keen glint in her eye that all of the nosy Cobalt Soul members have. She has a brash cockiness laced around her smile, and the way she speaks almost sounds abrasive. Caleb is immediately on guard. He’ll have to keep a careful eye on her and on the other Expositor as well.

“So, Assembly?” the shortest one says. Despite the porcelain mask and the hood hiding her features, Caleb squints at her. She’s short enough to be a halfling, but there’s something about how yellow her eyes are that makes Caleb pause. Her voice isn’t belligerent — not yet, at least — but she pins him with a steady gaze that does not waver. She’s standing in front of the firbolg and the tall woman with a hand behind her back, as if she were ready to protect them at any moment.

“No, not quite Assembly,” Oremid Hass cuts in. He steps forward and gestures towards Caleb. “Caleb is a librarian transferred from the Hall of Erudition to the Soltryce Academy.”

“Yes, I’m meant to act as a neutral party between the Cobalt Soul and the Assembly,” Caleb adds. He gives them a smile that will serve as shy for his purposes. “If anything, you could say I am here to ensure every party’s interest, whether that be King Dwendal or the Assembly or the Cobalt Soul, are balanced in the final agreement.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Nott,” the tall woman murmurs. She looks up at Caleb and says, “You’re like us. We’re meant to be a neutral third party for the Dynasty and the Empire as well. I’m Yasha.”

“So I’ve heard,” Caleb replies. “And it is good to meet you, Yasha.”

“And I’m Caduceus,” the firbolg finally says. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Caleb nods toward Caduceus and now looks at the Shadowhand. He needs no other introduction, but Shadowhand Essek still gives him a slight bow before he says, “And I am Essek of Den Thelyss, Shadowhand to the Bright Queen. On behalf of the Kryn Dynasty, I’d like to extend my greetings to you all.”

Oremid takes the lead as they walk over to the residence prepared for the newcomers. Beau starts up a conversation with Dairon in low voices, and Caleb pricks up an ear at that. He’s tempted to make Frumpkin listen in on their conversation, but Jester and Nott fall into step with him.

“So, _Caaaaleb,”_ Jester begins. She draws out the first syllable of his name longer than he thought was humanly possible before she flashes him another bright smile. “Do you like cupcakes?”

“What?” Caleb blankly says.

“You heard her,” Nott chimes in. “Answer the question.”

Cupcakes. The master doesn’t allow indulgences often, and he never grew up with much money in the household to spend on pastries. So, Caleb replies, “Well, I don’t eat pastries very often but—” 

Caleb’s cut off by a loud gasp from Jester that makes everyone stop in their tracks. “You don’t eat _pastries?”_ she says aghast. Her voice rises in pitch with each word, and she takes a moment to fan herself and say, “My goodness, we have to _fix_ this. You should start with some good cupcakes and then we can move you onto doughnuts and oh! Cinnamon sticky buns like the ones that they make in Nicodranas! I made those for breakfast today actually, and they were very good! Even Essek liked them! Right, Essek? You looked like you liked them a lot. I can’t blame you too because they’re _soooo_ tasty.”

The sheer volume and amount of words that she manages to speak in such a short amount of time baffles Caleb. However, when she mentions that last bit, he swivels his head towards Essek. The Shadowhand’s gaze is already on Caleb, so when Caleb glances over, their eyes meet. There’s a missing beat in the conversation, but Essek coughs softly and replies, “Yes, they were excellent.”

“It’s the _cinnamon_ that gives it that really nice kick, you know?” Jester says proudly. “Here, I’ll make them for you some time and I’ll call you up for breakfast.”

“Do you really want to invite an Assembly librarian to breakfast?” Fjord whispers to Jester. It’s barely audible, but Caleb catches the tail-end of the sentence. 

Jester makes a face before she looks over to him and asks, “Okay, what kind of librarian are you? What do you do?”

“Oh, I read books and file them into our catalog, help students if they need to look for research material, and keep the books organized, The usual librarian work,” Caleb says. He reaches up to tap his fake spellbook. “I do try to study when I have the spare time, but I am busy nowadays. I don’t have much time to go back to my old transmutation notes from my own time in school.”

Nott just continues to inspect him with her yellow eyes but something in what he spoke must’ve settled her mind. She finally declares, “Yes, yes, we _are_ bringing him to breakfast. Look at you, your cheeks are all hollow, you must spend too much time reading. Come over some time.”

Fjord’s eyes widen, but to the half-orc’s credit, he tamps it down rather quickly and rather well at that. It reminds Caleb of Astrid actually. But he shrugs and drifts to another conversation between Yasha and Caduceus.

Jester and Nott continue to chatter on with Caleb, and he humors them with the conversation. However, in the corner of his eye, he notes that Essek of Den Thelyss merely floats along without saying a word. His robes billow behind him. Caleb actually flexes his hand behind his back and senses the swirling magic around Essek. It feels so similar to the magic of the relic. Caleb — as Bren — has spent weeks upon weeks studying the relic, and its ebbs and flows feel almost exactly like the way Essek manipulates his magic. It fascinates Caleb, and he almost loses track of the conversation he’s having with Jester and Nott.

Perhaps this was one unexpected thing, but Caleb thinks he can still turn it to his favor.

* * *

There are few things that Essek doesn’t expect, but this is one of them.

Being seated right beside an Assembly dog at the dinner table falls directly into the category of things that Essek doesn’t expect. Few things are in that category, but it’s certainly beside the fact that a group of outsiders showed up with one of his country’s religious artifacts that he gave away.

He glances over at Caleb — which cannot be his true name — who is currently studying the forks and spoons in front of him. Jester is seated across Caleb, and she taps his foot with hers underneath the table. Essek watches as Jester taps the right fork to use. It’s very endearing of her, and it also seems rather useful to some of the others at the table like Caduceus, Nott, and Yasha.

Dairon, Oremid Hass, and Beau are engaged in some sort of discussion about the Cobalt Soul’s academic endeavours while Fjord and Caduceus are talking about the ocean. After Yasha and Nott figure out which fork to use, they start debating about the best dessert with Jester. That leaves Caleb and Essek.

Essek isn’t new to small talk; he may only be in his first life and his second century, but he’s been at the Bright Queen’s court long enough to know what to do. He starts by saying, “You mentioned earlier that you were interested in transmutation studies.”

Caleb chuckles, _“Ja,_ I studied some transmutation when I was a student. I never was a master, but I suppose with more study, I will be able to achieve more with it.”

Essek doubts every word out of Caleb’s mouth, but he politely nods and says, “Yes, reading and studying are hobbies of mine as well. Of course, when my duties allow me the free time to do so.”

“Ah, yes, your duties,” Caleb echoes. Although he doesn’t say anything more, Essek catches the knowing look in his bright blue eyes. The cat sitting underneath Caleb’s chair lets out a soft hiss at Essek before settling down.

Essek grips his fork a fraction of an inch tighter and resumes eating. 

Later, when they retire for the night, Essek remains the last person to stay in the foyer. Dairon has already taken her leave, and Oremid Hass just stepped outside the door. The rest of the party have returned to their rooms for a well-deserved sleep, and Essek cast a small clairvoyance spell to ensure that someone like Jester wasn’t listening in.

Caleb turns to leave as well, but Essek clears his throat. Caleb pauses before he cautiously says, “Shadowhand.”

Essek narrows his eyes, and in a torture-soft tone, he says, “Scourger.”

The look on Caleb’s face transforms completely. Instead of being the shy, quiet librarian that he first saw in the Platinum Veranda, this man looks dangerous. His gaze darts behind Essek for a fraction of a second, and Essek can already feel the mana starting to rise to the man’s fingertips. The brief scent of smoke rises in the space between the two of them, and the cat's shadow warps behind Caleb into something monstrous. “You’re insightful,” Caleb finally comments.

“The job requires it,” Essek returns. “And I’m afraid I’m required to be very good at my job.”

Caleb lets out a soft laugh. “The same applies for mine as well,” he says. He taps his cheek and says, “Your guise does not quite change your facial features enough, Lord Dezran Thain.”

Essek’s shoulders stiffen slightly. He took care to craft his guise. He remembers staring at himself in the mirror, carefully draining all the color out of his skin until it was pale and almost sickly. He changed his hair too, warming it up from a cool silver to a dirty blond. He wonders what part of it gave away and realizes that he did not change his eyes nor his nose quite enough. Essek exhales and makes a mental note about his illusory guise. Caleb looks too pleased with himself, so Essek snaps, “I think you out of all people should be careful with names, _Caleb Widogast.”_

Caleb shrugs, “I’m surprised that you’re here, Shadowhand.” He arches a brow and asks, “What interest do you have in stopping a war that you caused?”

It is a credit to all the training he received from Den Thelyss that he does not bristle openly at Caleb Widogast right now. Instead, he tightly replies, “The war we speak of has been cycling for centuries without either of us present to affect it in those years that slipped past.” His voice dips into a slight snarl as he says, “In regards to my own interventions, all I have to say is that I have no appetite for war; I have an appetite for knowledge.”

Caleb falters only for a moment, and Essek supposes that the same goes for him. The Assembly trained him well, but Essek knows a fellow mind when he sees it. To confirm his suspicions, Essek says, “Perhaps that is one thing we see eye to eye then.”

“Perhaps,” Caleb concedes. He straightens the lapels of his ragged coat and says, “Well then, neither of us can afford to slip, _ja?_ I suggest that we carry on as Caleb Widogast and Essek of Den Thelyss. Does that work for you?”

“Perfectly,” Essek bites out. 

He watches as the usual reservedness and quiet diffidence settle around Caleb Widogast’s shoulders again. “Well then, Shadowhand,” Caleb murmurs. A small smile — the only remnant of the Scourger — curls a corner of his lips up as he continues, “I bid you goodnight.”

The door shuts with a soft click, and Essek is left staring at the polished wood. He understands the predicament he’s in with startling clarity. This was a simple transaction at best: an agreement to keep each other’s secrets. They are both fully capable of wreaking each other’s destruction in terms of the secrets that they keep close to their chests. Essek’s secret is that of treason and heresy; Caleb’s secret is that of torture and lies. 

He’ll have to step carefully around Caleb while ensuring that the others don’t realize anything. But it already seems as though Jester and — to Essek’s utter surprise — Nott are set on giving Caleb the same treatment that they did to him. Essek looks down at his hands and wonders _again_ at how soft he’s become. 

At least they are both at a standstill. The scales are equally balanced, and if anything, Essek thinks he could pry at the thirst for knowledge that he glimpsed briefly in Caleb. He can still make this work. He can still get what he wants. This may have been unexpected, but Essek thinks he can still make it work out. 

He returns to his bed, softly and carefully, and leaves a trail of dunamantic magic in his wake. It flares out from where he floats and expands outward into a silver-thin web that entangles the house and makes it safe.

For now.


	4. Chapter 4

Caleb firmly thinks the entire situation is manageable.

Or at least, that’s what he thought before he woke up to a pounding headache in his head shortly followed by a bright, cheery voice saying, _“Good moooooorning, Caleb! You know how I said that you should try pastries from Nicodranas? I thought it might be nice if you could come—”_

The voice abruptly cuts off, and Caleb has to force himself to relax. Flames are already leaping up at his fingertips and running up along his arms and shoulders in reaction to the sudden surprise. It’s a habit he developed after one mission with Astrid gone wrong. He has to remind himself that he’s in the room Oremid Hass arranged for him right beside the library, and Frumpkin is still at the foot of his bed.

But then, the voice resumes again to say, _“Over and try some sticky buns with loooooads of cinnamon syrup! I’m good at baking, even Essek liked them, and I’ll see you soon, yeah?”_

Caleb swats the flames out and grumbles, “Don’t look at me like that, Frumpkin. How was I to expect a message this early and this loud in the morning?”

Frumpkin lazily waves his tail as his only reply.

Caleb hauls himself out of bed, and it feels strange to not wear his usual set of robes. Instead, he pulls on clothes sewn of rougher cotton and linen. It’s an outfit befitting a simple librarian, but he does admit that he prefers his clean, pressed robes. He wishes he was back in Vergessen, studying the relic, instead of being stuck here, babysitting a group of miscreants.

He finally replies back to Jester’s message before she can send him any more and cause more headaches. “Thank you for your kind invitation, Jester,” he begins. He pauses and considers his alibi before he says, “I will head over to your residence when I am done with my morning duties. Does that work?”

Frankly, he has no other real duties outside of his mission objectives, but he needs to ensure that his alibi will continue to function. Besides, his duties as a librarian aren’t entirely distasteful. Bren’s done worse work, and Caleb, like Bren, enjoys books. He would prefer to read them, but organizing them isn’t that bad.

Caleb finishes getting ready and gets to work in the library, returning books back to their shelves. It’s not difficult work, and Frumpkin helps by finding the right shelves to place the various tomes in. Occasionally, Caleb stops to skim through some of the books. One is an old textbook that he studied during his own time at the Soltryce Academy as a student, and another is a thesis about the moon or whatever.  The textbook brings back fond memories of Astrid, Wulf, and himself studying for exams in this exact library. Caleb can still find the exact place in the table where Wulf scratched their initials into during their first year as well as the exact place where Astrid tripped and crashed into one of their professors with six heavy textbooks. 

Despite all the memories lingering in the library, Caleb finishes his work quickly and heads to the Platinum Veranda. It’s not hard to retrace his steps back, and as he walks, he checks the position of the sun in the sky. Not quite to high noon yet. Good.

He knocks on the door, and the firbolg opens the door. Caduceus. Yes, that’s his name. “Welcome,” he says mildly. He gestures for Caleb to enter, and Caleb does with a small bow of his head. “Good to see you, Caleb. How have you been?” he asks.

“Well, thank you,” Caleb replies. He’s about to return the same empty question, but by that point, Jester’s already noticed him. He can see a blur of blue barreling towards him.

He barely manages to avoid a collision with the exuberant tiefling, and he can hear Caduceus chuckling behind him. “Caleb! It’s so good to see you,” Jester gushes. “Here, here, follow me.” She reaches out for his hand, and her fingers narrowly miss brushing over one of the many scars lining his forearms. Caleb flinches from the touch, and Jester stills. She doesn’t say anything about it, but judging from the way she glances towards him and then back down to her hand touching his, she noticed.

Jester drops his hand but gestures for him to follow her down the hall. She doesn’t act like anything’s wrong as she bounces down the hall and explains the different baking strategies of Nicodranas, but Caleb  _ knows _ that she noticed the flinch. He silently swears at himself for letting such a small thing slip, but he’s quietly grateful that Jester missed the scar. Caleb tugs the sleeves of his coat downward subtly and makes a mental note to wear a tunic with longer sleeves next time.

“Here, have a seat while I go grab the bun,” Jester tells him. “They’re almost done, I just have to wait for them to bake a teensy bit longer, okay?”

Caleb nods and sits down in the seat that she’s pulled out for him at the table. The goblin girl from the night before is already at the table, idly sloshing something in a flask back and forth. Her yellow eyes track Caleb’s movement, and she finally says, “Your name, Caleb, was it?”

“Yes, Caleb Widogast,” he returns. “And yours was Nott, I believe?”

“Mmm yeah,” she says rather noncommittally. She still rocks the flask back and forth between her thumb and index finger as she asks, “So Caleb, where are you from?”

Instantly, Caleb feels like he should be suspicious of Nott. She doesn’t look particularly invested in the conversation outside of sheer politeness, but he can never be too sure, “Not far from Rexxentrum, but still in the Zemni Fields,” he replies back lightly.

“That’s a pretty place, alright,” Nott says. “I’ve heard that the Zemni Fields are gorgeous in autumn.” She stops fidgeting with the flask and looks him straight in the eye. “I’m from Felderwin myself.” 

Felderwin. It’s a small town in the Marrow Valley, and there’s not much to speak of. However, Caleb has to remember his alibi and remembers that Zadash is within the Marrow Valley as well. “Ah, in the Marrow Valley? Although autumn in my hometown is unforgettable, I will say that the spring in the valley is beautiful from what I saw in Zadash,” he tells her.

Something in Nott’s expression eases, and she replies back more easily, “Eh, it’s better in the countryside, I think, compared to a big city like Zadash. More flowers in the fields, you know.” She returns to toying with her flask as she asks, “And what were you doing up in Zadash if you were from the Zemni Fields?”

Again, the suspicions in the back of Caleb’s mind rear up again. He has to tread carefully in this conversation, especially since he can already feel someone’s gaze at the back of his neck. In addition, he can hear loud, thumping footsteps coming closer and closer to the door. There are too many ears in this house listening at all times. Caleb sighs and says, “My mother and father weren’t, well, academics, but I always loved reading books.” 

That makes him pause and think about all the old memories he found in the Soltryce Academy library. Nostalgia glazes his words over as he says, “And I was a very good student when I was younger. I enjoyed it, reading the words and learning the sigils and drawing them out with my first piece of chalk for myself. I miss those days sometimes. Those were simpler times. I only had to think about the next exam and the next assignment and the next book to read,  _ ja?” _

Now, Nott’s eyes focus firmly on him, and the flask stops moving. She sets it aside and steeples her hands together as she asks, “And you studied… Transmutation, you said?”

Caleb can’t tell what merited the sudden focus on his studies, and he can’t shake the constant suspicion that hangs around his shoulders. “Yes, is that of particular interest to you?” he carefully asks. 

She shrugs, and something seems to unspool in her. A little bit of the tension escapes her hands. They were close to becoming white-knuckled fists borne out of a sentiment that Caleb can’t quite pin down, but now, Nott seems more at ease. “Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “My husband is an alchemist, and I can mix a few things together, but magic? Beyond me. I’d love to learn if I ever had the chance.”

Caleb blinks. Nott wants to learn...magic? The temptation is so close. He’s always loved teaching others. When he was one of the older students at the Academy and had the spare time, he would hold small study sessions in the library for the younger, newer students. He’s not bad at transmutation; he can do the magic as long as he takes some time to review his notes and study the spell. But transmutation felt nothing like evocation, nothing like the flickering flames of fire that burst into life in the bowl of his open palm. He used to teach the younger children how to coax a small flame to grow into a fireball or how to take a small crystal of ice and make it grow into a cone of cold. 

It feels like such a terrible idea, but the urge to try is more than Caleb can resist, “I… I could teach you something if you want,” he hesitantly offers. “I’m not a teacher by trade, but I could try?”

“Oh?” Nott asks. “Really?” Her eyes are bright with interest. It’s evident that she’s trying to play it cool at the very least, but her expression has cracked wide open to reveal how she truly thinks about it.

Caleb’s about to respond, but Jester comes back with two plates. “Caleb! Nott! Are you making friends, oh this is so good!” she says. Her smile is almost as blinding as the sun as she speaks. She sets down a plate in front of Nott and in front of Caleb before she says, “Here is your bun, Nott, and here is  _ yours. _ Go on, try it!”

The aroma of cinnamon and sugar rises high in the air and makes Caleb’s stomach growl. Looking at the bun makes him realize that he forgot to eat breakfast. It’s a fairly common occurrence. Astrid used to nag him all the time about remembering to eat, but it’s hard to remember when you’re constantly excited for the next new discovery in your studies. Or at least, that’s how it is for Caleb. 

He shuts his eyes and inhales the sweet scent. Cinnamon in desserts isn’t a common thing for desserts from his hometown. Jester was right about that being a Nicodranian specialty. Still, the sweet smell of baked bread and sugar reminds him of some of the brighter days from his childhood. Sometimes, his mother would save enough coppers to afford the smallest pastry and would give it to Caleb as a birthday gift. Usually, thoughts about his parents don’t sting at all, but this one makes his heart twinge just the tiniest bit.

“Essek!” Jester calls out. The name of the Bright Queen’s Shadowhand jolts Caleb out of his momentary nostalgia. “Come on over, Essek,” Jester continues, noticing nothing. “Tell Caleb how much you liked the pastry when you tried it.”

Caleb watches as Essek glances up and says, “It was very good, Jester.” The Shadowhand notably avoids Caleb’s gaze and looks only at Jester. 

Jester pouts and taps Caleb on the shoulder as she says, “Don’t tell me, tell Caleb.”

Essek swallows — Caleb can see the bob of his throat — and reluctantly drags his gaze over to Caleb. Their eyes meet, and a moment of charged silence passes between them. “It was delicious,” Essek finally says. “I would recommend it.” His gaze darts over for a fraction of a second to Jester before he amends, “Highly recommend it, in fact.”

“Well then,” Caleb murmurs. “Who am I to judge the tastes of such an esteemed gentleman such as yourself, Shadowhand Thelyss.” He does not break eye contact with Essek, and it’s only when Jester nudges the fork over to him that he looks away. He picks up the fork and takes a small bite of the bun. The flavor of the cinnamon spreads across his tongue, and Caleb finds out that the Shadowhand is entirely correct. He looks at Jester and concedes, “It is indeed delicious, Miss Lavorre.”

“Jester.”

“What?”

Jester’s expression sobers for once as she says firmly, “Miss Lavorre makes me sound all stuffy. Just call me Jester.”

“Jester, then,” Caleb says. He watches the smile grow back on Jester’s face, and he realizes that he prefers Jester with a smile than without. 

“Caleb,” he hears Nott say. Her bun is already half-eaten, but she taps her fork against the plate to grab Caleb’s attention as well. “You’re welcome to hang out with us anytime,” she says. “Come over more often.” 

Caleb nods, and to his surprise, Nott smiles in a way that could be called almost fond. “You’re a good kid,” she decides before she returns to eating her bun. 

Caleb stares at her, wide-eyed. In theory, his alibi was purposefully designed to be bland and inoffensive. A mere librarian. The mild suspicion was to be expected from anyone the Bright Queen sent, so that was also expected. But fondness and sticky buns and smiles as bright as the sun were never expected nor calculated off within the plan. 

He glances back towards Jester, but she’s already pranced off to talk about something with Yasha and Beau. However, Essek still gazes at him. There’s nothing in his expression that’s close to suspicion. Instead, Caleb sees curiosity and interest in the lines of the Shadowhand’s face. When Essek notices him looking back, he merely arches a brow at Caleb. 

Caleb gives a slight nod back and settles down to eat the rest of his sticky bun. With each sweet bite, he feels his new role and new guise settle comfortably around his shoulders. 

A little too comfortably. 

* * *

Essek firmly thinks the entire situation is manageable.

Jester’s irresistible and ineffable charm works on everyone, it seems. Even for Scourgers. She and her pastries manage to wear down even the toughest individual. As expected from a girl who was able to charm the Bright Queen into granting them the titles of heroes to Rosohna. 

He’s a little surprised at Nott though. Out of the motley group that arrived at Rosohna’s doorstep, she’s been the chilliest towards him. He supposes it’s because of the whole imprisoning her husband thing that threw things off the tracks, but he couldn’t have imagined her welcoming someone like Caleb this quickly into the group. Perhaps there’s something about the raggedy librarian guise that appeals to her sense of friendship more than himself. 

Caduceus and Yasha are next to strike up a conversation with Caleb, and it seems to be going well. They show him their bone instruments that they got from that one shop, and from what Essek can overhear, they start talking about magical knick-knacks. 

Fjord, however, pulls Essek out of his thoughts. “Can we talk?” he asks. He leads Essek to the kitchens, out of earshot from Caleb. “Listen, something’s off about that librarian,” Fjord lowly says. 

Essek buries his small note of alarm under his well-practiced composure. Out of the group, he suspected that Fjord or Caduceus might be the ones to suspect any foul play first. Caduceus has a way of seeing the truth gleaming through the cracks of people’s expressions and veneers, but it is Fjord, talented with guises and accents and half-spun lies, who is the most likely to be familiar with another person’s lies. 

“What do you mean?” Essek chooses to say instead. 

“Look at the people sent to negotiate with us,” Fjord murmurs. “We have an Assembly mage, we have an Expositor from the Cobalt Soul, and then this librarian. I know he said that he was meant to be neutral, but what neutral party could he possibly come from?”

Beau and Nott wander into the kitchen holding empty plates, and they both freeze when they see Fjord and Essek. 

“Oh fuck,” Beau says. “Were we interrupting something? We can leave, yeah, we’ll leave you to….whatever you were doing together. I  _ don’t  _ want to know the details.”

Essek’s cheeks color slightly, and Fjord’s ears go bright red. “No, Beau, we’re not doing any sort of, ugh,” Fjord sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “I asked Essek here because I wanted to see if he also felt like something was off with that librarian. He’s supposed to be neutral, but what could his true alliances be with?”

Beau relaxes and snorts, “Good that you’re not doing something funky because that could’ve been awkward real fast real quick.” She stops to consider Fjord’s question and says, “Well, he said he was a librarian from the Hall of Erudition that got transferred over to the Soltryce Academy. That should make him Assembly.”

“I think we should talk to him,” Nott suddenly cuts in. Essek can’t see anything else but sincerity in her yellow eyes, and she looks firm as she speaks.

“What’s gotten into you, Nott?” Fjord asks. He squints at her. “Have you been drinking again?”

“What, no, I just think we should talk to him more before making a judgment,” Nott defensively says. Her eyes shift to a different direction, avoiding Fjord’s gaze at all cost. Essek narrows his eyes at that and finds it strange. 

Nott sighs, “Back to this conversation again? I told you, I’m not drinking. I’m  _ trying.” _

Before Fjord can reply, Jester comes into the kitchen with a few empty plates. She stops in her tracks and stares at everyone gathered in the room. “What are we all doing here?” she asks. “Are we having a mini party in here? Am I invited to the mini party? Oh my gosh, if we’re going to have a mini party, we should get Caduceus and Yasha and Caleb all in here, and then Caduceus and Yasha can play their instruments, and then! It’ll be a  _ real _ party.”

“No, no, don’t bring Caleb in here,” Fjord hurriedly says.

Beau arches an eyebrow and drawls out, “I guess we’re having a mini secret meeting rather than a mini party.” She jerks her thumb over to Fjord and then to Nott. “Fjord thinks we shouldn’t trust the book guy. Nott thinks we should trust the book guy.”

“Now, I didn’t say trust him, I said—”

Jester cuts Nott off by saying frankly, “I think Nott’s right. We should talk to him more and be friends!”

Fjord presses a hand to his temples and says, “Jes, I know you mean well, but do you really want to befriend someone that could be our enemy? We don’t know anything about him.”

Jester draws herself up to her full height — which admittedly, compared to Fjord, isn’t much — and says, “I didn’t know anything about you before I met you. I didn’t know anything about Nott or Yasha or Moll—” She breaks off, and her expression cracks along the seams. Essek glances at the others and sees the same break mirrored along each of their faces. Essek never knew the tiefling known as Mollymauk Tealeaf; he only knows the hollows that Mollymauk left behind on the others.

However, Jester steels herself and continues, “Molly. He probably would’ve read Caleb’s fortune and then talked to him. Look at Essek. We didn’t know anything about him before we met him, and even when he was doing his Hot Boy spooky thing, we still talked to him.”

Essek is left at a loss for words as everyone turns to look at him. He floats a centimeter higher out of surprise and musters up enough to say, “I… I am grateful that you consider me a friend, Jester Lavorre.”

“No need to be grateful,” Jester easily replies. “That’s just how friendship  _ works.” _

“Jester’s right,” Beau says. Her words are abrupt and loud, allowing Essek some respite from the attention of everyone in the room. She folds her arms and continues, “Molly left every fuckin town better than he found it, and we might as well do the same. Besides, I’m an Expositor. Closer we get to this Caleb guy, the more we can find out about him. Maybe that’ll help us during the negotiations.”

“That’s fair,” Fjord murmurs. He looks over to Essek. “What’s your read on him then?”

Essek mulls the question over. He doesn’t know how he should frame his opinion on Caleb. He could push Caleb and all the dangers and secrets he holds away from his friends, or he could pull him closer to keep a more careful eye on him. During his Shadowhand training, an agent of the Lens once told him,  _ “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” _ Perhaps the same principle applies here.

He folds his hands behind his back and says quietly, “He is a librarian. At best, he will help us with negotiations. At worst, he will say the same things Oremid Hass does. If he attempts to hurt us, then we are more than capable of defending ourselves. I see no issue with befriending him.”

_ Unless he unravels, _ Essek silently thinks.  _ If he unravels, then I am unmade as well. _

He has taken worse gambles though.

“And we’ve got Dairon,” Beau says. She stretches her arms out, and Essek can hear her joints and knuckles pop with the movement. She sweeps a hand towards the kitchen door and continues, “And we’re not so bad with talking ourselves. Well, maybe not me, but Fjord, Caduceus, Jester, we’ve got this. And if worst comes to worst, well…” Her hand curls into a fist. “Pop pop.”

The door opens, and Caduceus, Yasha, and Caleb stand there. Caleb’s eyes dart immediately over Essek, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, Caduceus is first to speak as he mildly says, “Are we eating the rest of the buns in here? Good with me, I’ll brew tea.” 

Caduceus shuffles in and starts puttering around with his floral teas. Essek can never quite tell what the firbolg is thinking apart from the impassive expression, but he knows Caduceus to have incredibly accurate insights on people and situations. He has little doubt that Caduceus is unaware of the type of conversation that went on in this kitchen. Essek’s less confident about Yasha knowing, but he’s certain that there must be some sort of suspicion in Caleb.

Jester grabs Yasha’s and Caleb’s hands and pulls them in the kitchen. At this point, the kitchen is exceptionally cramped. Caleb has to scoot up until his shoulder presses against Essek’s own in one corner of the kitchen. Nott and Beau lead the conversation and stir up the group again while Jester passes out the last of the buns.

However, Caleb looks up at Essek and comments, “The kitchen is certainly an interesting choice of space.”

“The choice was not quite mine,” Essek returns. 

“Oh, I have no issue with it,” Caleb says. A lock of his red-brown face falls and hides the glint of his eyes. “I’ve been in smaller spaces before. And how could I miss out on such good company?”

Essek snorts a bit at that. “Is this the kind of social gathering you often attend?” he asks.

“Eating sticky buns in a cramped kitchen?” Caleb muses. He leans against the kitchen counter and folds his arms as he says, “No, I’m afraid not. My spare time is largely spent reading books.” The motion nudges Essek’s arm now, and Caleb has to shuffle aside to make more room for Yasha and Caduceus.

Essek studies Caleb. He can’t get a good look at his eyes or the expression on his face with his hair hiding parts of his face. “Books,” he echoes.

Caleb now looks up and catches Essek looking at him. He pushes the lock of hair behind his hair and leans in to conspiratorially whisper, “A secret indulgence of mine.”

Essek’s still taller than him at this angle, but it’s mostly thanks to the dunamantic magic keeping him aloft. He idly wonders if Caleb would be taller than him if he were to stand on ground. He tilts his head and drawls, “Is that really as secret as you think it is if you’re a librarian?”

“Ah, but when I go to  _ buy _ the books, I get to buy other things as well,” Caleb murmurs. “Eggshells, snakeskin gloves, ruby dust, sulfur, and other sorts of trinkets. And learning new things in of itself is a joy, Shadowhand.”

The list of spell components makes Essek pause. “Does transmutation require ruby dust and sulfur?” he dryly asks. “Sounds more like fire to me.” And fire lends itself better to evocation rather than to something like transmutation.

“Perhaps. I’m always interested in testing out new spells,” Caleb says steadily. He doesn’t break the eye contact between them as he says in a low, soft, and almost lulling voice, “Anybody can make lights. Anybody could send a message through a wire. I want to bend reality to my will.” He shrugs and says a touch more loudly, “That requires reading and experimentation.”

Essek finds too much of himself in Caleb’s words and face. He thought that they were slightly similar when he saw Caleb off the night before, but now, he finds that there is far,  _ far _ more that he has in common with the Scourger aside from his treachery. Well, he supposes that in Caleb’s case, it is loyalty to the Empire rather than treachery. 

Impulsively, he murmurs, “Admittedly, I feel the same way.”

Caleb raises a brow. “Mmm, really now?”

Essek shrugs, and the motion makes his robes flutter. The silk brushes against Caleb’s folded arms and sends a few motes of his dunamantic magic flare out. “I am a wizard,” Essek says. “How does the Empire saying go? Birds of a feather flock together?”

_ “Ja _ , that is it,” Caleb says with a nod. They lapse into silence and watch the group laugh. Beau punches Fjord playfully on the shoulder, and Yasha lifts Jester up in the air so that she can boop Fjord on top of his head. Then, abruptly, Caleb says, “If you wish, the Soltryce Academy library is open to you.”

Essek glances over at Caleb who looks steadily forward. “Opening up a magical library to the Empire’s sworn enemy seems bold of you, Widogast,” he says.

Caleb startles a bit, and now, he looks at Essek. In that moment, he seems like he forgot himself. Less of an Academy dog and more of the guise that he’s pretending to be. He tries to pull his composure together as he says, “Well, you would be with me. And it is a library.” Upon saying the word, he nods and affirms, “Books were meant to be read, knowledge was meant to be gleaned.”

“Perhaps, I shall take you up on your offer,” Essek decides to say. Again, it startles Caleb. In truth, it startles Essek as well, but he supposes that if he is to keep his enemies closer, this is the way to do it.

Caleb nods before dryly saying, “Well, if you ever wish to contact me, I’m sure you could ask Miss Lavor— I mean, Jester — to send a message.”

Essek winces. He knows the experience very, very well in addition to the migraines that often come with too many messages in a row from Jester. Still, it’s a part of her that makes her lovable and charming. “I would hope that my messages aren’t accompanied with, ah, how should I say it, without pounding headaches?” he chuckles.

That earns Essek a small laugh from Caleb. It’s so small, and with the noise that Beau and Fjord are collectively making, it’s barely audible. But, it’s there. “That would be appreciated,” Caleb says. He nods towards Essek. “Well then, Shadowhand Thelyss, I shall eagerly await your message.”


	5. Chapter 5

Bren Aldric Ermendrud isn’t supposed to have any weaknesses, but Caleb Widogast is meant to be a different person than Bren. That is the only reason why Bren forgives himself for the brief lapse in judgment. 

The decision was an impulsive one, and Bren thought that he had all the impulsiveness trained out of him by this point. The realization that it hadn’t was an unwelcome one, but by the time Bren realized that he had already offered to teach a goblin how to perform some minor magic and gave an enemy of the Empire blatant permission to enter an important repository of knowledge, it was far too late to take any of it back. Admittedly, any magic that Nott could learn would be minor against the likes of the Assembly, and the enemy of the Empire was secretly a heretic traitor to his own dynasty. However, the fact remains that the error was inexcusable for Bren. Perhaps it is partially redeemable for Caleb. 

Bren wonders if this alibi wears too easily on him. Master Ikithon always said that the truth with a shade of a lie was far more believable than a lie with a shade of the truth, but the master never specified what to do in the case that the truth with the half of a lie became more believable to the liar than the listener. The truth is that both Bren and Caleb love to teach and to learn, and that caused both errors. Caleb has a hard time finding the lie in that, but he promises himself that it will not happen again. 

At least he doesn’t have to commit to the teaching and the reading until the day’s negotiations are done. Oremid Hass and Expositor Dairon are already on their way to the Platinum Veranda, and it’s Caleb’s responsibility to escort the Dynasty emissaries — if they can even be called emissaries — to the designated location. It’s a house of a nobleman called away on business to the Menagerie Coast, and the lord himself offered up the estate to the king. No doubt to curry more favor with King Dwendal, Caleb thinks. But the machinations of the court are of no interest to him. What matters to him more are the tomes of knowledge kept within the Assembly circles and the research to be done on the Kryn relic at Vergessen. 

It takes a surprising amount of time to get everyone out and ready. Caduceus takes his time, carefully and slowly, as he packs up his bag, and Yasha spends some time with Jester cleaning up the kitchen and wiping all the cinnamon and sugar scattered on the counters. Beau and Fjord are among the first to get ready, but they too waste their time in the foyer, debating on the quality of Beau’s smile. 

“They’re loud and noisy, but they’re some of the greatest people in the world,” a voice says behind Caleb.

Caleb jumps a little bit. It’s Nott, and she somehow managed to creep up on him with complete silence. “Oh, sorry,” she says when she notices Caleb’s surprise. She rubs the back of her neck. “It’s a habit now, the whole sneaking thing. You get used it after traveling around. But yeah, like I was saying, some of the best people. It’s good to have you with us, Caleb.”

“Oh, I was not aware that I was included in this,” Caleb blankly says. 

Nott raises a brow and says, “Mmm, maybe. We’ll see. So, what’s the plan now?”

Caleb looks at Nott, and for a moment, he allows himself to be nothing but Caleb: quiet, curious, _fallible._ He stretches out a hand and lets a small flicker of flame dance in the center of his palm. “Would you like to learn something?”

Nott leans forward and nods wordlessly. Caleb thinks about all the different things that he’s learned. He knows how to do a great deal of things — how to build a wall of fire with a sliver of phosphorus, how to craft a giant cat’s paw with an eggshell and snakeskin, how to burn so thoroughly that nothing is left — but fire is not the first thing he thinks of when he looks at Nott.

Instead, he pulls a piece of copper wire from his pocket and rolls it between his index finger and thumb. “Magic is everywhere,” he begins in a low voice. “In the air around us, in the water that we drink, in the earth that we stand on. Anyone can do magic. Some are born with it, some make deals to get it, and some — like us — study it to use it. It might take some time to get started, but it’s always in us.” He points a finger at Nott and finishes with a message cantrip to say, “Magic, that is.”

Nott exhales out a long, shivering breath and replies with the cantrip, “And you’re going to teach me how to do it.”

Caleb smiles: a real, genuine thing that he hasn’t felt for a while. “Yes,” he says with a sure voice. 

He only has enough time to run through the somatic component of the cantrip with her before everyone else is ready. But before they leave, Caleb presses the wire into Nott’s hands and says, “Keep it. We’ll go over the other components later.”

Nott holds onto his hand before he can pull it away and tells him, “Thank you. Really.”

Caleb smiles back at her and feels warm at the core of his heart. Teaching truly was a joy for him. Yes, he loves to delve into tomes and yes, he loves to test out different theories within the halls of Vergessen. But teaching is a different joy entirely. He loved to tutor other students at the Academy and guide the younger, newer members of the Vollstrecker. This was a pleasant reminder of that. 

The way to the nobleman’s house is uneventful, but on the way there, Essek dips his head closer to Caleb as he floats by. “You’re a good teacher,” he murmurs. He does not wait for Caleb’s reply before he continues on. 

Caleb follows Essek with his gaze before he sighs and shakes his head. He’ll deal with the consequences of his error later. 

Oremid Hass and Expositor Dairon are there, seated on one side of an ornate table. The entire house is a little overdone for Caleb. Too much gilt for his personal taste. Still, he takes a seat beside Hass, and the first day of peace negotiations begin. 

After the usual pleasantries, Essek gives Oremid Hass a thin-lipped smile before he blandly says, “First and foremost, we would like to have our beacon returned safely to Rosohna where it belongs.”

Hass raises a brow and replies, “I have Archmage Ikithon’s word that the relic was discovered in Pride’s Call, which is within the boundaries of the Empire’s territory. Does that not make it ours by virtue of those who found it?”

“Archmage Hass, that relic was part of the Dynasty’s original collection, and they are old beyond any of our years,” Essek says. He smiles, but Caleb sees it twist into something bitter at the very last word. _Years._ The Shadowhand continues on though and says, “The matter of where it is found does not compare to its origin.”

“What else does your Dynasty wish from these negotiations?” Dairon cuts in. Good, Caleb thinks. It’s better than whatever Hass could’ve said in the moment. 

Essek nods towards the expositor and says crisply, “We wish for the release of all Dynasty hostages that you still hold within Empire territory. They are our citizens and we would see them released without any further harm.”

Oremid Hass speaks over the few words Dairon begins to say, and with a falsely jovial tone, he says, “Now, Shadowhand, you cannot go about making these demands from the Empire without offering something in return. After all, that does not quite make negotiations, ah, you know, _negotiations.”_

“Mister Hass,” Jester quickly says. “I think Essek is just setting the first few requests on the Dynasty’s behalf and is completely okay with hearing what the Empire has to say. Oh no, Sprinkle, come back, now’s not the time.” 

Sprinkle wriggles out of Jester’s collar, and Jester tries vainly to shove the weasel back. The crimson weasel stubbornly refuses to listen to Jester though. However, Caleb has known Oremid Hass for far too long to expect anything else other than the small gasp that the archmage makes. “Oh, is that the same darling weasel I met earlier?” Hass croons. “Oh, he is as beautiful as always.”

“Aw, thank you!” Jester chirps as she passes on the weasel to Oremid. The archmage lets the weasel curl up in his arms, and Caleb has to resist pressing a hand to his temples when Hass starts scratching below the weasel’s chin and making clicking noises with his tongue.

“Archmage Hass.”

Oremid glances up and says, “Yes, yes, Expositor Dairon. Carry on.” He then returns to cuddling the weasel.

Dairon sweeps a steady gaze over the group before their eyes settle on Beau. “I believe Expositor Beau has some additional information on the situation. What would your opinion on the matter be?” they say.

“Well, ah, hm,” Beau says. She exhales a short burst of breath before she draws herself up and says, “The big thing here that we’re all concerned about right now is the whole Tharizdun business, yeah?” 

“Among many other issues that have arisen, I do not know if that is the major concern for these negotiations,” Oremid now says. He still has Sprinkle in his arms, but his attention returns back to the negotiations at hand.

Now, Fjord speaks up to say, “One of the major players in the attack within Rexxentrum itself was a man connected to the Archmage of the Assembly.” His voice is even and steady, but his gaze does not waver from Oremid Hass.

Beau gestures to Fjord and then to Oremid as she finishes, “And I think that’s a major cause for concern that we should consider when we’re having these peace talks.” Now, Caleb notices how Beau’s attitude shifts and settles. Despite her brash words, he can’t help but see how much she pays attention to each and every word that Oremid says.

The mention of the attack and the connection back to the Assembly makes Oremid’s expression sober. It’s a sting on both Oremid and Caleb’s part. Caleb knows that this was a mistake that shouldn’t have happened within the ranks of the Assembly. Everyone within the Assembly knows and understands that everyone else is plotting for their own power. However, the difference between that and what Vence Nuthaleus did is that Nuthaleus involved outsiders and brought undue attention from multiple parties including the Empire, the Cobalt Soul, and even the Tal’Dorei Council. Now it seems like the Kryn Dynasty have attention on this incident as well. The Martinet is never going to be able to live this down. 

Based on Oremid’s stony expression and Dairon’s silence, Caleb finally speaks up. “And that occurred during an attack on the city by the Kryn Dynasty themselves,” he says. That gets a nod of approval from Oremid and a slightly sour frown from Jester. “I understand that this is an important cause to you, but that is not the major point of the negotiations themselves. I assure you, we are on the hunt for Vence Nuthaleus, and following his capture, we can discuss further procedures then. Right now, the major concern is the civil war.”

And Caleb — Bren — knows very, _very_ well how they are hunting Vence Nuthaleus down.

“And the civil war is hiding the Tharizun problem from sight,” Caduceus suddenly says. He’s been quiet during the entire talk so far, and the sound of his voice draws everyone’s attention to the firbolg. Caduceus shrugs. “It’s a distraction.”

“Then by ending the civil war with these negotiations, we can all turn our attention to this......issue. Let’s continue on with negotiations, _ja?”_ Caleb returns.

Essek shares a look with Caleb over the table, and Caleb inclines his head towards the Shadowhand. Essek flutters his eyes shut for a moment too long before he opens them again and says, “Very well. What does the Empire wish of the Dynasty?”

“The multiple attacks and ambushes that the Kryn have imposed on us has cost us severely. The damage alone in Rexxentrum has been significant,” Dairon begins. They grimace as they speak, but they continue, “The king would like complete reparations made to the Empire to compensate for the damage and the lives lost.”

“And is the Cobalt Soul speaking for that as well?” Essek coolly asks.

Dairon grits out, “As I have said, that is the king’s wish.”

Without missing a beat, Essek asks, “What does the Cobalt Soul wish for then?”

Caleb sees Beau shift a bit in her seat as Dairon states, “Free travel within Xhorhaus following a peace negotiation.”

Essek’s eyes narrow. “That is bold of you to ask for, Expositor Dairon,” he says softly.

“Some of our Archivists would benefit greatly from the unique research opportunities available in Xhorhaus. I believe one Archivist in particular has been lobbying for more resources in order to conduct research related to the moons in further reaches beyond that of the Empire,” Dairon lists off. Their eyes focus on Beau. “And I believe Expositor Beau can confirm these statements and provide evidence as to how a better relationship between the Cobalt Soul and the Kryn Dynasty can provide benefits to both parties.”

Beau raises a brow and nods towards Oremid. “And the Assembly?” she prompts.

Oremid clears his throat, and if it weren’t for the crimson weasel scrambling up his arm and settling around his neck, he would look almost formal. “We would be happy to give you the relic as long as our researchers would be allowed to continue studying it with Dynasty priests and whoever else your people use to take care of the relic,” he says.

Caleb winces. Truly, that was one of the worst possible ways to phrase the delicate matter. “Ah, what Archmage Hass means is that by sharing use of the relic, both the Empire and the Dynasty could continue to benefit from the relic,” Caleb tacks on. He gestures over to Essek with a single hand. “The Empire would be able to continue their arcane and historical study of the relic while the Dynasty retains their religious symbol.”

There's a brief flicker of interest in the Shadowhand's eyes, but it's so faint and barely detectable. If Caleb hadn't seen the same look the night before, then he thinks he wouldn't have noticed. The Shadowhand quickly clamps down any sign of curiosity and returns to his usual expression devoid of any feeling other than a polite smile.

“The Bright Queen considers the beacons to be important relics; I doubt such a claim to one of our most revered symbols will pass her approval,” Essek tightly replies. “The Bright Queen asks for her people and her people’s religious symbols back while the Empire asks for money, resources, and rights to our country. Tell me, is this an equal trade?”

“Here’s what,” Beau says. She settles her elbows on the table and looks straight at Oremid. “The Assembly’s had enough time studying the relic from Pride’s Call, haven’t they? Let them keep their notes from their studies, but give the relic back to the Dynasty. Maybe that’s temporary, maybe that’s permanent, but whatever it is, it’ll stop a war from tearing apart both nations while another organization festers under the chaos.”

“Well-put, Expositor,” Oremid returns stonily. “But we have the Nuthaleus problem under control, and we will do our own tracking to ensure that this little uprising is stamped out. I do not see that as a major issue right now in relation to these negotiations with the Dynasty.”

“We’ve brought proof to King Dwendal, the Assembly, and the Cobalt Soul regarding the significance of the Angel of Irons cult,” Fjord now says. There's a bit of impatience that bleeds into his voice. “And we’ve both received clearance from the Bright Queen and King Dwendal himself to broker these peace negotiations. Why don’t we settle down a bit?”

And so, the talks continue. Caleb steps in to ease the tensions quite a bit, but he also helps divert the conversation around the nature of the beacon in Vergessen. He also uses the opportunity to examine the group he has before himself.

Although Beau looked and sounded like a rough-and-tumble girl with her friends in the kitchen, she looks sharp and keen and _observant_ during the entire conversation. She manages to pick up on hidden points relatively well and hones in on a few subtleties that Oremid Hass tried to slip past her. Between her and Expositor Dairon, Caleb will have to be careful about his alibi and his disguise. And like Beau, Fjord is another prominent player within the negotiations. He doesn’t have the same glint to his eye like Beau does, but his tongue must be silvered with all the quick persuasions he pulls out of his belt. Caleb thinks he works well with Jester. There’s something disarming about Jester’s brand of charm that Fjord then uses to his advantage to throw Oremid, Dairon, and Caleb himself off-guard. 

Yasha and Caduceus barely speak, but between the two, Caduceus speaks more often. He either points out the truth or smoothes down ruffled feathers. Nott speaks less than Beau and Fjord, but Caleb notices her eyes constantly flickering between whoever is speaking. It’s the same kind of look that Beau has in her eyes, and Caleb knows that she must be cataloguing each and every point brought up with an unyielding calculation.

And of course, the Shadowhand himself. He always has a pleasant smile on his face, and his composure is impeccable. Truly, the only time Caleb ever noticed anything out of him was when he mentioned how the relic was old and how they were studying it. _Beyond all of our years._ He doesn’t understand what that means to the Shadowhand, but aside from that, Essek of Den Thelyss is incredibly good at keeping his secrets. It fascinates Caleb. More than he would like to admit, but still, it's undeniable. Essek is an interesting man, and Caleb finds himself wanting to know more.

When Caleb glances towards the window, he sees that the sun is not quite low on the horizon yet. Still, it’s been a significant amount of time within these walls. So, Caleb clears his throat and says, “Perhaps, we should take a pause on negotiations for the day. We have stated all the main pertinent points for today, and we can reconvene tomorrow, _ja?_ ”

Oremid exhales out a long sigh that stirs up some dust on his skin. He stretches out his arms, making his stony skin crack, and says, “Yes, I think that is an excellent idea. Expositor Dairon?”

“Yes, thank you,” Dairon says. “When shall we reconvene? Within a few days’ time?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” Essek replies. “I will forward our.... discussion to the Bright Queen. Good day, Expositor Dairon, Archmage Hass, and…” His gaze settles on Caleb for a very, _very_ long moment. “Librarian Widogast.”

Everyone starts to file out of the room. It’s clear from everyone’s expressions and slightly slumped shoulders that this was a long and exhausting talk, and Caleb will wholeheartedly agree to that. Essek doesn’t leave quite yet though. Instead, he waits with a hand on the corner of the table. When Caleb circles around to get to the door, Essek extends that hand out to him with an arched brow. "Librarian Widogast," he repeats again, still with his hand outstretched.

Caleb looks down at Essek's hand and then up at Essek's face. If the Shadowhand wants to play this game, this _dancing_ around the great secret at hand, then Caleb — no, _Bren_ — can play the same game. He has played game after game like this during his time as a Vollstrecker, whether it be at some nobleman's party on the Menagerie Coast or hidden among the king's own men at the royal court. Caleb Widogast may be a stranger to such alibis and tricks, but Bren Aldric Ermendrud knows them intimately after so many sessions of training and espionage.

So, before Bren leaves the room, he bows to the Shadowhand and takes his hand. Like the noblemen at court, Bren holds Essek's hand lightly and brushes his lips over Essek's knuckles mid-bow before he murmurs in a low voice, “Just call me Caleb.” Then, he straightens up to step forward, leaving Essek in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, some political drama :0  
> also i haven't caught up with critical role at all so i have no idea if these negotiations are accurate lol


	6. Chapter 6

The Shadowhand of the Bright Queen isn’t supposed to have any weaknesses, but Essek of Den Thelyss knows that he is, at the very core, a selfish man. That is his only explanation for his actions, whether that be giving the beacon away or whether that be the dangerous game he is playing with this Assembly dog.

Librarian Widogast. Or, as the man said, “just Caleb.”

Essek has little idea what the man’s true name or role may be other than to act under the Assembly’s own will, but he takes comfort in the fact that if he takes Essek down, Essek can fully take him down. And because he is selfish, because he is curious, and because he is admittedly a tad bit cocky, he decides to take Caleb Widogast on his offer.

Following the sunset and dinner, Essek excuses himself from the table. To his surprise, it is Yasha that stops him first and asks, “Do you want to stay?” 

It’s a simple question that is a total of five words, but it makes Essek pause. Yasha smiles a little bit and stretches out a hand to him. He can hear Beau and Caduceus chiming in to say something as well, but Essek forces himself to focus back on his priorities. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “But I am afraid I have business to attend to.”

Yasha does not say a word; she only nods and lets Essek leave. Somehow, that makes Essek feel worse than if he had turned down Jester or Beau. He inclines his head towards Yasha and lets his dunamantic magic carry him out the door. Just before he leaves, he sets wards to protect them. 

“Good evening,” he begins in a Sending spell. “I hope I am not inconveniencing you at the moment, but I wished to take you up on your offer from earlier today.”

The reply is quick and prompt. “Shadowhand Essek, it would be my pleasure. I will come to the Platinum Veranda shortly to escort you there.”

Essek folds his hands behind his back and gazes up at the sky while he waits. Even though he is miles away from his home, the stars and the moon still look the same. Night is still as dark and soft here in the Empire as it is in the Dynasty, albeit a touch less comforting. The people here embrace the day and its bright, blinding sunlight like his own people do with the inky night.

Essek hears the meow of Caleb’s cat before he hears Caleb’s footsteps, but he suspects that Caleb allowed his familiar to do so. It would reflect poorly on such a trained operative to be given away by an obvious detail like that. He turns to see the librarian standing there in his ragged coat, and under the dim light of the stars and distant streetlamps, Caleb looks exactly like what his alibi says he is. A poor, ragged, humble librarian who was plucked up from the countryside and swept into this political mess. He looked far more different when he was wearing his tailored burgundy coat to the rendezvous point. The only points of similarity to that Assembly dog and the librarian are the color of his bright blue eyes and the leather book harness that circles around his chest. 

“You’re up late,” Caleb comments amidst another meow from his cat. He glances down and murmurs, “Hush, Frumpkin. No need to yell at our co-conspirator.”

“Co-conspirator?” Essek repeats. He raises a brow. “It seems as though I have been promoted somewhat in our relationship to each other,” he says while taking a step closer to Caleb.

Caleb doesn’t stop him, but his familiar does hiss at him. Caleb clicks his tongue, and the cat reluctantly returns to winding around Caleb’s ankles. “Is that not what we are to each other?” Caleb asks. 

“Perhaps,” Essek allows. “Well, _Caleb,_ shall we?” 

Caleb, to his credit, merely chuckles before he offers Essek a hand. The gesture is genteel and utterly Empire in every way, and Essek tilts his head at the sight of it. Caleb stretches his hand out a little further and raises a brow at him, and Essek sighs as he takes Caleb’s hand. 

“So, Shadowhand,” Caleb says. With a smile, the Assembly dog — certainly not the librarian — turns the latent magic around them and teleports them into a corner of a library. Caleb does not let go of Essek’s hand and instead, with his free hand, he gestures over to the long lines of bookshelves filling the space. “Welcome to the library of the Soltryce Academy.”

Essek gives a cursory once-over at the library before focusing on the magic still drifting around Caleb. It’s not quite like Essek’s technique. He relies more on techniques borne from dunamis: adjusting the localized fields of gravity, twisting a few strands of possibility, and weaving a web to slip through space. Caleb’s magic is something entirely different. Instead of reaching out for the threads of would-be’s and could-be’s that Essek does, Caleb’s magic reaches out for the pre-existing magic in the air and the foundations already laid in the earth and air. It’s more tangible and present in a way that Essek’s isn’t, but there’s a thread of it in the center that flickers and flares up like a burning fire.

“I thought you wanted to see the library, not me,” Caleb quips. 

Essek’s gaze snaps back to Caleb’s face, and he realizes that he’s been gazing at Caleb this entire time rather than the library itself. He can feel his cheeks heat up slightly, but he tries to hold onto his composure. “You’re a fascinating man, and I am interested in such things,” he tells Caleb. “Is that so bad?” 

“Are you fascinated in Caleb the librarian or the Vollstrecker?” Caleb returns. His voice is barely above a whisper, but Essek can see the steel in his gaze through the shadows cast by the bookshelves.

Essek smiles and tilts his head as he says honestly, “Would saying both offend you?”

The sentence tastes strange in his mouth. He hasn’t spoken nothing but the plain truth in a very long time. The court prides themselves on weaving words out of nothing and of crafting sentences to be a bare wisp of words in comparison to their hidden meaning. Essek finds his time with the newcomers to be refreshing because they very much do not abide by _that_ court expectation, and it seems as though he’s picked up the habit from them. For once, telling the truth feels _good_ to Essek. A shame that the entire point of being here is a lie then.

But the truth is the truth. The…. Vollstrecker — as Caleb calls it — is interesting because of their positions and how they intertwine with each other. The heretical traitor and the loyal Assembly dog, both tied by a beacon spilling out light and possibility and unborn souls. Aside from that shared between them, Essek is fascinated by the idea of this man, so hungry for knowledge, and finds a commonality between them in that regard.

The librarian is interesting for an entirely different reason. Essek does not know how much truth there is to the alibi, but the idea of a poor boy growing up and entering the ranks of an organization like the Assembly without any sort of hereditary right to it is undeniably appealing. The librarian had nothing but his own efforts and talent to bring him to such a position at the Hall of Erudition and the Soltryce Academy and now a set of negotiations that would determine the fate of their nations. Perhaps the latter is part of the Vollstrecker identity, but still, the idea of Caleb’s own talent being responsible for his position is fascinating to Essek.

His answer shakes Caleb a little bit, and the small amused smile on his face shivers. He coughs to clear his throat and turns his back on Essek. “Well then,” he says. “If there is a particular field of magic you’re interested in, I would be happy to escort you to that section of the library.”

Essek reaches up to trace a single finger down the spines of the books beside him. There’s a slight layer of dust, and small motes of it drift into the air when he brushes his fingertip against them. These books are all about evocation and how to change the flow of elements to make yourself explode with it. Essek glances over to Caleb and compares the titles to the way Caleb’s magic feels. He suspects the man specialized in evocation from the way his magic settles into certain patterns and shapes more reminiscent of an evoker than a transmuter. However, it’s peculiar that Caleb’s style is more restrained than what he would expect from an evocation wizard. Instead of being a raging wildfire, Caleb seems to be a tightly controlled flame.

Essek tugs one book out of the shelf, and the sound makes Caleb turn back and return to Essek’s side. “ _The Methodology of Directing Lightning,_ ” he reads out. He looks up at Essek who’s floating slightly higher than Caleb’s height. He reaches out to tap the book’s cover, inches away from Essek’s own hand, and comments, “I didn’t think you would be interested in evocation.”

“What did you think I was interested in then?” Essek asks. 

Caleb shrugs. “Something more along the lines of your specialty. Something to do with the relics. After all, why would you come to the Empire? Why negotiate for something that you so willingly gave away?”

“Perhaps it was curiosity,” Essek says as he slides the book back onto the shelf. “I’m sure you could understand.”

“Well, _ja,_ I can easily relate,” Caleb snorts. “I chose to be the one carrying the relic from our meeting place back to the Assembly.”

Ah, that’s interesting. If Caleb volunteered to be the one to meet him and take it back to the Empire, then he must’ve known about the relic in the first place. Essek reaches out to brush a hand over Caleb’s shoulder, and with a touch of dunamancy, he shakes off a few threads of possibility from Caleb’s aura. It’s a basic trick that doesn’t do anything of importance. All the young children in the dens play with the threads like this. 

It makes Caleb shiver and reach out for the magic. “What was that,” he says sharply. There’s a flicker of fire dancing along the edge of his fingertips, but instead of alarm in his eyes, there’s intrigue. Only a man confident enough in his abilities would look upon an unknown magic and reach for it rather than turn away. Or perhaps a fool would do something like that. Essek counts himself in the former, and he suspects that Caleb does as well. 

Essek shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he hums. 

“For a man who proclaims himself to understand my curiosity, you are doing a terrible job at satisfying it,” Caleb grumbles. 

“Oh?” Essek murmurs. He reaches out and twitches another strand of possibility away. “Did you think I am here to satisfy you? Or do you _want_ to be satisfied by me?”

Caleb gives him a glare, but it’s half-hearted at best. The blue of his eyes is lit up with even more curiosity, and he takes a step towards Essek. “Selfish, aren’t you?” he returns in a low tone. 

Caleb’s voice is barely above a soft rumble, and their bodies are close together. Essek could thread a single strand of magic between them without lifting a single finger. Now that they’re this close together, Essek finds that Caleb’s taller than he expected him to be. If Essek ever deigned to put his feet on the bare ground, he thinks that Caleb might even be taller than him. In a quicksilver second, Essek decides to tug the thread of possibility and make Caleb lurch a little closer. Just as he steadies Caleb with a single hand, he chuckles, “Most of us are, _Vollstrecker_.” The foreign Empire word feels strange in his mouth, but it makes Caleb twitch under his hand. 

Caleb looks up at Essek, and without brushing Essek’s hand away, he returns, “And yet, you are in a position that demands very little selfishness in your Dynasty, Shadowhand. Why not give in a little? After all, you’ve already given something to the Empire.”

Essek narrows his eyes and curls his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. He did not give a beacon of the Luxon to the Empire out of the goodness of his heart or the nature of his position. He gave it to the Empire because of so many reasons tangled up tighter than spider’s silk. He bites back, “Could you not say the same for yourself?”

Caleb pulls back from Essek and finally pushes Essek’s hand off his shoulder. “What? Being selfish? Or being selfless?” he asks. “Because my duty is to the Empire, first and foremost. My life and my death are in service to the Empire, and to my brothers and sisters, it is an honor.”

Essek lets out a mirthless laugh and tells him, “Selfish people such as you and I have the greatest tendencies to fall into occupations such as ours.”

Torturers. Executioners. Investigators. All these titles are left unsaid, but based on the way Caleb’s expression darkens, Essek knows that the implied meaning is clear.

Caleb turns away, and Essek suspects that he’s touched a nerve. It’s surprising. The Assembly trains their dogs well, but not well enough to withstand Essek’s mere teasings. He sighs, and in a kinder tone, he asks, “Then do you not have any ties to anything except the Empire?”

Caleb does not turn back around, but he does say, “Aside from my brothers and sisters in the Vollstrecker? No.”

“Rare to meet a person with such little outside connection,” Essek muses. “You have nothing connected to the Empire — no family, no friends — aside from the education they have fed you.” He falls silent, and now, a certain kind of heaviness sinks between them. Essek looks at the strands of possibility still hovering around the two of them in glistening silver shades. He shakes his head and quietly says, “But I cannot blame you; ties are nothing but shackles. You are correct. I do not care for these governments, whether they be Empire or Dynasty, that are tied down with these hereditary lines.”

That makes Caleb turn around and look at Essek with a piercing blue gaze. “You are not entirely without your ties, Shadowhand,” he says.

“What?”

“The people you came here with,” Caleb clarifies. “They seem to have a greater hold on you than your words say.”

Essek ruefully smiles, and he lets something slip through the cracks. It startles the Assembly dog. He can see the way Caleb’s eyes dart to his smile and back up to Essek’s eyes with a round kind of curiosity that he recognizes. After all, Essek has seen the same in himself, reflected across nearly everything he does. “Perhaps,” he says. “But the point remains the same. I have very little favor left in me for governments so dominated by arbitrary families and noble houses. The tie I have with my friends is one built out of something else beyond the Dynasty or the Empire. They are the lucky ones. They are not shackled to one society or another, and I appreciate that about them aside from their many redeeming qualities.”

Essek stops himself. _Friends._ He promised himself that he would call them associates, but more often than not, he finds himself slipping. The lapse in his words draws Caleb’s attention though, and under the librarian’s gaze, Essek struggles to fill the space. He reaches for some thoughts and tries to string some words together in the semblance of diplomacy, but it is with utter bitterness that Essek finally says, “At least your Assembly has some sort of meritocracy built into it. It is skill and not birthright that determines your position there.”

Caleb barks out a short, sharp laugh. “A meritocracy?” he repeats. “Oh, Shadowhand, you are sorely wrong if you think it is mere skill that allows you to ascend.” Now, all Essek can see on his face is old resentment. “Certainly, the Academy and the Assembly offer many, _many_ tests and exams and such to see if you can proceed onto the next level. Skill is cultivated. Academia is taught. Magic is mastered and bent to the wills of those who are worthy. But behind everything? There is a web of favors curried over years and years, through families and alliances, traitors and allies, all of that and more. Your government and mine are no different; they simply use different names to hide their dealings. You should know that best, Shadowhand. Haven’t you seen how ugly both the Dynasty and the Empire can be? I do not care for the politics of the Assembly. I am perfectly satisfied with doing my job and continuing my research.”

“Are you satisfied?” Essek asks. 

The question is simple, and it cuts through Caleb’s agitation. He stops and stares at Essek. His chest is heaving with breath, and it seems as though there are untold words still on the tip of his tongue.

“Are you truly satisfied?” Essek repeats.

Now, Essek watches as all of the emotions slip off of Caleb’s face. They disappear under the veneer of Caleb’s composure, and it is like looking into a mirror for Essek. He is no stranger to this, and he is no stranger to having too many thoughts and discontents roiling in his mind. In fact, Essek suspects that Caleb might be one of those people who do it so deftly that he tricked himself into thinking that he never cared about it in the first place. So, Essek says softly, “I know. I know what it’s like to not be satisfied, to see the whole of things and find it lacking, to live with cottoned lies in your mouth every single day without sufficient proof to merit them. And sooner or later, you are going to have to do something about them.”

Caleb looks up at Essek, and with eyes like chips of ice, he bites back, “But at least I won’t sell my nation to satisfy my own selfish desires and illusions of dissatisfaction. We are not the same kind of person, Shadowhand.”

Caleb turns to stalk off down the corridor, followed by his little tabby cat. However, in a voice loud enough to reach Caleb, Essek says, “If we were not the same kind of person, Caleb Widogast, then why are you so bothered by it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he curls his fingers inward and whisks himself back to his room. Just before he leaves completely though, Essek sees a brief glimpse of Caleb whirling around to face him. Essek is already gone though, and he only leaves a flurry of possibility in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be essek's part of chapter 5, but both this and the previous chapter ended up running away from me haha :") for ease of reading, they were split up into two separate chapters + i took a little longer to refine this one. sorry for the wait + lmk your thoughts on the chapter <3


	7. Chapter 7

When Caleb finds something that intrigues him, his mind fixates on it and begins to pick it apart. Essek of Den Thelyss, Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, is someone that is terribly fascinating and intriguing in his selfish, curious way, and Caleb finds himself constantly thinking about what Essek told him before he teleported out of the library.

_ If we were not the same kind of person, Caleb Widogast, then why are you so bothered by it? _

Caleb doesn’t have an answer to that. Well, no, Caleb  _ does _ have an answer. Both Caleb and Bren have an answer for nearly everything, but this is an answer that he doesn’t want to hear. 

The truth is that they are the same. Both Essek and Caleb are selfish people who would rather study the myriad of arcane possibilities locked inside the relic — the Beacon, the Luxon, whatever  _ he _ calls it — and Caleb cannot deny that. He remembers Essek too well to even try to forget. No, he’ll have to carry it and settle himself with the weight of it.

He rolls over in bed, and Frumpkin meows loudly. Caleb raises his head a little bit and mutters in Zemnian, “Yes, Frumpkin, I know I need to get over and sleep. It’s harder than it sounds though. You go to sleep.”

Frumpkin meows again. 

“No,  _ you  _ go to sleep first.”

Frumpkin meows. Again.

Caleb exhales out a loud sigh and rolls over to the other side again. The sheets cling to his skin, and it’s hot, especially with the sparks of fire starting to roil within him. He shuts his eyes tight and tries to find peace inside the darkness there.

When he opens his eyes again, he is 17 years old again. He can smell the scent of the bread that his mother is baking and the scent of the soap that his father has used for the past 17 years that Caleb — no, Bren — has known him. His mother wipes the flour off her hands on her apron, and she looks up at him with a familiar smile. “Are your friends not going to come in yet? I have food ready for you all,” she says.

Bren feels his tongue say the same thing that he’s said in every other dream about this, and it goes exactly how it did in the past. “Wulf and Astrid thought they saw the cat and wanted to pet it,” he says. “They’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Good, good,” his mother says as she turns back to the kitchen. “Your father is in the next room as well. He’s excited to see you.”

Bren knows that they’re traitors. He saw them. He saw their handwriting on incriminating papers. Master Ikithon even told him that he had the choice. To kill them or to leave them be. One would be supporting the Empire; the other would destroy it. Of course Bren had to kill them. The thought of even being offered the choice was laughable. Of course Bren would choose to save the Empire. For the greater good.

Well, that’s not true either. Bren is selfish, and he knows that killing them saved the Empire and ensured his place within the Academy and the Assembly. It was killing two birds with one stone, really. But when he stands here, in a shell of the past, he can only see his selfishness painted in blaring color. Everything is the same, down to the very last photographic detail, thanks to his memory, but the only thing that is different is this new sense weighing on his shoulders.

Bren can’t quite trace it. He doesn’t know how to identify it, and for once, he breaks from the usual pattern of events in this memory to pace back and forth. He can’t quite put his tongue on it. This burden is foreign to him in the context of his memory, and it frustrates him. 

He stops pacing and skips ahead in the memory. Instead of going to see his father and ensuring that he would stay inside, he goes straight to the window that he remembers so well. Bren shoves it open with more force than necessary, and he stares out at the fields of waving grass and golden grain. Astrid and Wulf are on the other side of the house. No one will ever know that this window, large enough to fit a man, was open, and that was why Bren chose to open this one. 

In addition to the meadows, Bren sees  _ Essek. _ The elf’s dark robes patterned with silver billow out around his floating feet and ankles, and his long sleeves sway in the soft breeze. He’s not close enough to be audible, but Bren can see him mouth out, “Are you truly satisfied?”

“I don’t know,” Bren says helplessly. “No, no, I suppose not.”

Essek’s lips twitch up into a smile, and now, he mouths out, “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to do something about them.”

“What can I do?” Bren snaps. “I know what I want, and that’s information, that’s knowledge, that’s the mystery inside the relic. I need time and resources to study it, and I would’ve had that if you and your wretched band of misfits didn’t show up on the Empire’s doorstep.” He drags in a long, shivering breath before he spits out, “You know what? You want the same thing, and you think we are the same type of person, do you not? Then why don’t you  _ do _ anything about it? Why are you standing there, pretending like you care about your dynasty and your queen? And you have the  _ nerve _ to say that I’m like you when I have been nothing but loyal to the Empire, in  _ spite _ of my selfish wants and desires!”

The dream version of Essek does not react with anger or hostility or sadness. Instead, Essek merely gives him the same quirk of his brow and the same infuriating half-smile before he says, “If we were not the same kind of person, Caleb Widogast, then why are you so bothered by it?”

Bren wakes up with a gasp. The sheets around him are burning, set alight by the fire streaming from his hands, and there is sweat beading on his brow. Frumpkin is yowling and scrabbling at the sheets with his claws, trying to put out the fire and wake up Bren. Bren isn’t burned — never has been by his own fire — and it takes him a few moments to gather his thoughts. His chest is heaving, and he tries to reach out to anything that he can hold onto to regain his composure. He ends up burning more of his sheets and charring his bedpost. 

Finally, Frumpkin leaps up in the midst of the fire and lands solidly on his lap. He presses his paws firmly against Bren’s chest, and that’s when Bren regains enough of his breath and focus to put out the fire. His arms fall limp to his sides, and he’s left, staring at Frumpkin’s wide eyes. “I know,” he says miserably. “I know.”

By the time Bren leaves his room, he is Caleb again. The burned sheets are disposed of and replaced with fresh linens, and there is no hint or sign of fire along his hands. It is a new day, and as he breathes in the morning air, he allows himself to become Caleb Widogast. The name feels more comfortable than Bren somehow. Perhaps it’s because of the dream. He shakes his head and continues on his way to the Platinum Veranda.

The days pass, but the negotiations do not. Time slips by so quickly compared to the progression of their talks. The Empire and the Dynasty both have great wants and desires, and neither are willing to give up more than a centimeter. Caleb continues to write his reports for Master Ikithon and King Dwendal as do the others. He’s sure that the others from the Dynasty are tiring of these talks which is good. It’s what he wanted and planned for all along. 

It’s strange though. No matter how he tries to bore this group of ragtag misfits, the more they seem to be interested in him. Jester takes a liking to Frumpkin and constantly dotes on him. Beau tries to teach Caleb how to do push-ups, and Fjord reassures him when he fails to do as many as Beau. Apparently he’s thrown up in his attempts to beat Beau at push-ups. Caleb regrettably is unable to forget this information. Yasha and Caduceus cajole him into sitting down and listening to their music. Caleb finds that he infinitely prefers Yasha’s ethereal and melancholy music over whatever Caduceus produces with his bone flute. 

At some point, Caduceus manages to cajole him into staying for dinner, and over a loud, raucous dinner, Fjord demands that they have a better name for their ragtag party. “Listen,” he says. “I know we named the ship the Ball-eater, and that was fine. But Sprinkle’s Weasel Teasels? That’s just a  _ terrible _ name.”

Jester retorts, “Do you have a better name? I am  _ so _ good at coming up with names. Why won’t you let me do this one? C’mon, Beau? Yasha?”

“I think… Sprinkle is a very cute weasel,” Yasha offers. She says nothing about the actual name itself. 

Beau decides to take this moment to start chugging her ale. When Jester raises a brow at her, Beau shakes her head and points at her tankard as she drinks.

“Fine, someone else?” Jester groans. She turns to Caleb with a glint in her eye. “Caleb!” she says in a sing-song voice. “What are  _ your _ thoughts on Sprinkle’s Weasel Teasels?” 

All eyes are on Caleb, and he deliberates on what to say. The name is quite honestly the worst name for a group that he’s ever heard in his entire life. “What about…” he begins. He searches for something that would suitably fit. “What about,” he repeats. “The Mighty Nein?”

Jester scratches her head. “We don’t have nine people though,” she says.    
  
“No, not nine the number. I mean the word,  _ nein. _ It means ‘no’ in Zemnian,” Caleb says. “And if you would like to be more specific, we do comprise nine people. You, Beau, Yasha, Nott, Fjord, Caduceus, Essek, Sprinkle, and…”

“And you!” Jester exclaims. “Oh, that is  _ so _ good. What about it, guys?”

“Honestly, I’ll take anything other than Sprinkle’s Weasel Teasels,” Fjord says. He looks over to Caleb and raises his glass. “To the Mighty Nein!”

The rest of the table echoes, “To the Mighty Nein!”

Caleb doesn’t join in for the first one. He’s never belonged to anything other than the Vollstrecker. But the second time the others raise their glasses, he raises his own glass too and chimes in with the rest. 

This continues on for several days, and Caleb surprisingly finds that he’s not as upset with it as he initially expected himself to be. During these days, Nott checks up on him the most. She sounds almost like a mother when she nags him to take care of himself more. However, she turns out to be a surprisingly adept and eager student. She twists the wire between her fingers and reaches out for the magic around her with a kind of hungry, bitter desperation. Caleb can sympathize; he knows the type. When she succeeds in casting Message multiple times in a row, she looks up with a familiar kind of fascination in her eyes. 

It’s nice to teach again

If only he could ignore Essek’s gaze boring into his back.

Beau flicks Nott’s ear and says, “‘Kay, I know you just learned how to do it, but I’m right here next to you. If you wanna practice, try shooting it over to Caduceus.” 

Caduceus nods as he cups his hands around his ears and faces Nott. “I’m ready,” he tells her. 

Caleb’s lips twitch up into a smile, but he glances over and sees that Jester’s already caught a glimpse. Judging from the bright grin beginning to grow on her face, she saw it. Behind her, Essek floats with a bland smile on his face. When Essek notices Caleb’s gaze, the left corner of his lips quirk up before he turns and floats away. 

Caleb jerks his gaze away and looks back at Nott whispering messages to each and every person in the group, twisting the copper wire between her fingers over and over again. There’s a look of wonder and excitement unfolding on her face, and finally, Nott turns to Caleb and with a curl of her hand, she whispers into his mind,  _ “Thank you.” _

He feels… He feels warm. Not like the blazing fury of fire or the charred remains of his bed. This feels warm and gentle and welcoming. His smile trembles, and Nott’s brow furrows at the sight of it. But Caleb replies back,  _ “You are welcome. It was a pleasure to teach you.” _ And this time, the words in Caleb’s mouth aren’t lies. 

Later, when he leaves, Beau is at the door, waiting. Her fingers idly drum against the wood frame, and her foot taps in rhythm. Caleb freezes, and Beau looks up. “There you are,” she says. “Listen, before you go, I just wanted to apologize.” Her face twists into a grimace, or perhaps, this is her attempt at a smile? A small huff of breath escapes her, and she mutters, “Damn, Fjord’s always better at this talking smiling shit, alright, Beau, let’s do it.” She looks back up at Caleb and says, “You did a good thing. Nott’s been wanting to learn magic for a long time now. ‘Fraid none of us are good teachers at it though. Certainly not me, can’t do magic for shit. But you? You made her happy. Just wanted to thank you for that.”

Caleb blinks once, then twice, and Beau winces. “Listen, that might’ve come out more rough than I wanted it to,” she tells him. “But it’s the truth. I know we’re both here for different things, and I don’t really know who you are, but you did more than you had to. And you did it to help. That’s a good thing in my book.”

He hasn’t had someone thank him in a long time. Usually, people beg him for mercy that he no longer has the capacity for. Caleb inclines his head and says, “Truly, it was no trouble. I enjoyed it, and I’m glad Nott did as well.” He pauses before he says, “The same goes to you, Miss Beauregard.”

“Just Beau.”

“Then, just Caleb, I suppose.”

“Caleb,” Beau says slowly. She pushes herself off the door and claps him on the shoulder as she passes him by. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” The sound of her footsteps grow smaller and smaller as she heads up the stairs to her quarters. Caleb just stands there at the door though, trying to parse through the myriad of thoughts and feelings racing through his head. He doesn’t understand. He’s not here to be friends; he’s here for a mission and he doesn’t understand why it’s happening like that and all the analysis and predicted scenarios that he ran through his head aren’t happening and there are so many — 

Caleb’s shaken from his thoughts by a familiar pressing sensation at the back of his neck. It’s a message. From the feeling of the magic, it’s Master Ikithon, and the sensation of it seeps into Caleb’s skin. Master Ikithon’s reedy voice murmurs, “I believe you have a report to make to me, Bren.”

Caleb — no, Bren — finds that he doesn’t feel warm anymore. Instead, he feels quite  _ cold. _

* * *

When Essek finds something that intrigues him, he tends to pour all of himself into it to figure out what it is. He spent hours with the Luxon, feigning prayer while intently observing it, and he spent his nights trawling through any book or old document that would offer him some more control over the power at his fingertips. Caleb Widogast — whether he be Assembly dog or librarian — is very much the same. He is a fascinating man that holds both Essek’s downfall and potentially Essek’s triumph in his hands. 

But for right now, he has to set his own selfishness aside and report to the Bright Queen. 

He reports back to her at night underneath the round moons. They glint silver in the night, and Essek floats on the balcony. With a twist of his hand, he hides himself from magical sight before he begins to convene with the Bright Queen.

She appears to him in her usual resplendent regalia. Her crown of horns gleams translucently in the moonlight, and she murmurs, “So, Shadowhand. What news do you bring me now? Good news, I hope? Although, I do not put it past the Empire to remain selfish creatures. Tell me about the negotiations.”

Essek takes a deep breath and does his best to keep his composure. “Your Majesty,” he begins. “The Empire has agreed to include the beacon of the Luxon in the negotiations. However…” He trails off at the sight of the queen’s eyes. She narrows them, and now, they look flinty and hard. Essek clears his throat and continues, “They ask a high price. They want reparations. If the king cannot have retribution, he wants at least complete reparations made to the Empire to compensate for the damage sustained during our attacks and for the Empire lives that they have lost. The Cobalt Soul would also like free travel within Xhorhas in order to conduct their research and investigations.”

“Bold,” the queen says. Although her voice remains quiet and level, years of court experience allow Essek to see the sheer anger simmering beneath the Bright Queen’s composure. Her fury is quiet and tamped down with centuries of practice, but it’s still there. She lifts her chin slightly and says softly, “How  _ bold _ of them to ask for complete reparations when they have continuously attacked our borders and returned nearly every attack of ours. What have they said about  _ our _ people rotting in their miserable jails?”

Essek dips his head and keeps his voice level as well as he replies, “The Empire wants justice, and they refuse to return our citizens without putting them through trial.”

Now, something sparks up in the Bright Queen’s eyes, and her hands curl into fists. “A trial that will likely be prejudiced and set against them from the very beginning of it,” she says, fury keeping her voice taut. “Due process does not come at the hands of a government that is fundamentally corrupt.” She exhales out a long breath before asking, “And what about the Assembly? You have already mentioned what the king and the Cobalt Soul want.”

Ah. The thing that his queen will despise the most. Essek searches for the right word to use, but he takes too much time. The Bright Queen says, “Speak, Shadowhand.” There’s a sharp edge to the sound of his title.

“Your Majesty, the Assembly wishes to have access to the Luxon in order to continue studying it,” Essek says.

Now, the fury rolls off the Bright Queen in full, palpable beats. Even though she’s not here in person, Essek fancies that he can still feel the sheer waves of dunamantic energy vibrating through the floor of her dais. The image of her flickers, but she continues, “How  _ dare  _ they. And you, Shadowhand? Did you let this slide?”

“Of course not, your Majesty, I—”

“Essek of Den Thelyss,” she says, cutting him off. The sound of his name in her voice makes it sound meager and lacking. “Do you know how grave this situation is? Do you know how important the Luxon is to our people? Countless souls are carried in those beacons, Shadowhand, and returning them back to our country is of utmost importance. We  _ cannot _ let them taint them any longer than they already have.”

Does she know? She can’t possibly know about his heresy. He has covered his tracks well in Xhorhas, or at least, far better than he has in the Empire. She cannot possibly know. But right now, as Essek looks at the Bright Queen, he feels no regret. He feels the weight of pressure, the weight of his title, and the weight of his secrets all on his shoulders, but right now? As he looks at the queen who has reigned for multiple reincarnations, he can’t help but think that he is the first to slip past her. It is a brief flash of selfish pride, but it is what it is. 

That is what keeps Essek steady as he says, “I understand, your Majesty?”

“You understand?” his queen echoes. She settles back on what Essek assumes to be her throne, and she continues, “Well, Shadowhand, I certainly hope you do. Both I and the umavi of Den Thelyss will be deeply displeased if you do not accomplish what I have sent you to do.”

These are familiar words and warnings to Essek. He bows his head and murmurs, “Yes, your Majesty.” The vision of the Bright Queen fades, and Essek is left alone in the foreign moonlight. He tips his head up to gaze at the sky, and for once, he feels sure of himself. This exchange makes it feel like his point is even more correct. He has no allegiance to any Dynasty or Empire, and he finds that the things he truly cares about is his own desire for knowledge, and strangely, his friends.

Essek is not afraid of the consequences. Frankly, he feels like he’ll be perfectly fine as long as Caleb doesn’t reveal his secret, and he doesn’t think that Caleb will. He saw the turmoil on the Assembly dog’s face. For now, Essek is safe and away from the fury of the Bright Queen. However, his friends — the newly dubbed Mighty Nein, courtesy of Caleb — are not immune to the Bright Queen’s rage, and they are only safe because of the beacon that they returned and Essek’s constant efforts to praise them where the Bright Queen can hear about it. Truly, he has such little loyalty to the Dynasty left in his bones anymore, but for his friends? He’ll follow them to the ends of the world. 

He just needs to make sure that the one loose end doesn’t end up burning them all. And for someone like Caleb Widogast? Burning seems like more than an apt word for it. 


	8. Chapter 8

Caleb stands, stiff and still, and the uniform of the Vollstrecker feels strangely heavy on his shoulders. Master Ikithon does not bother looking up at Caleb when he steps in but continues writing in his journal while the relic continues to hum and whirl with strange Kryn magic in its tripod. The lab feels abnormally cold, but the magic that the relic exudes reminds him of Essek. It’s soft, unlike the hard, sharp edges of everything else here. 

“How is the work going, Bren?” Master Ikithon says as he continues to scribble. As Caleb searches for an answer, the scratching of Master Ikithon’s pen against the paper fills the space between them. Thankfully, he continues, “I heard from Oremid that the Shadowhand was… Reluctant to give up on the relic. Funny, isn’t it? Especially since he’s the one that gave one up in the first place.” 

Caleb swallows hard and says, “Perhaps there is pressure on him from his queen.”

“Ahem.”

Caleb blanches, and he quickly adds, “Sir.”

“Good,” Master Ikithon murmurs. He sets his pen down and straightens up to look at Caleb. His gaze pierces right through Caleb, and he continues, “Don’t get too complacent, Bren. Even if you’re out in the field, you must always remember to stay true to yourself. And who are you, Bren Aldric Ermendrud?”

“A loyal Vollstrecker that serves the Empire, sir,” Caleb recites. These are words that are ingrained in his heart’s memory. Even if he did not have the memory that he has, he would still hold onto this simple truth. Or was it as simple and truthful as he always thought? He’s not sure anymore.

“Excellent,” Master Ikithon says. He shuts his book and places it on one of the bookshelves as he says, “You always were a good student, Bren. I have faith in you.”

The words were undoubtedly meant to be warm, but why do they feel so cold coming out of Master Ikithon’s mouth? Caleb can’t tell. He can’t tell if it’s the laboratory that’s strange today or if it is himself. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s the one hearing these words so differently. Normally, he would be so _happy_ to hear words like that, but it appears as though today is a different sort of day. 

Master Ikithon raises his head and gazes at Caleb for a long, _long_ time. Caleb suddenly realizes that he hasn’t spoken a word in response to his praise. He quickly dips his head, and then, Master Ikithon finally says, “Now, Bren, tell me about these negotiations.”

Caleb eases out a long, slow breath. Finally. Something that he’s able to do. “They’re coming largely to a halt, master,” he begins. “Neither side is willing to give up much. The Kryn Dynasty are starting to budge when it comes to the reparations that the king demanded and the lift on travel restrictions that the Cobalt Soul wanted. However, the Dynasty refuses to give up any sort of privileges or rights related to the relic.”

There is a harsh silence as he ends his report. Caleb’s gaze darts towards Master Ikithon’s eyes, and he quickly tacks on, “Sir.”

Something in Master Ikithon’s eyes shift, and he shrugs. “Well, at least the stall in negotiations allows us more time to study the relic,” he says as he turns back to the bookshelf. He pulls a different journal out and flips it open to a bookmarked page. “We miss you in the laboratory, Bren,” he murmurs. “Your insights have always been useful.”

“Thank you, Master Ikithon,” Caleb says. This time, he does not forget to reply.

Ikithon pages through the journal slowly, and amidst the sound of rustling paper, he says, “Perhaps you could come back in your spare time to work with us again in the lab and continue your work. But, Bren…” He trails off, and his hands halt above the journal. “I have been hearing that you do not have much spare time on your hands lately.”

Caleb’s blood runs cold, and it feels like all the fire has escaped him. “What do you mean, Master Ikithon?” he asks.

Ikithon sighs, and the sound of that soft exhale sends a shiver down Caleb’s spine. “Dinners with the guests from Xhorhas, tours around Rexxentrum, and some sort of incident with Oremid, your little familiar, and a scarlet weasel,” he lists off in a bland voice. “Is that what you waste your precious time on, Bren?”

Caleb stands there, and his traitorously accurate memory offers him flashes of everything that Master Ikithon mentioned. He can hear the sound of Jester’s laughter, see the flash of teeth in Beau’s smile, see the way Fjord fumbles with his mug’s handle, and catch Nott slipping a few sips from her flask when she thinks no one is looking. He knows how he led Caduceus and Yasha on a little trip around Rexxentrum and how he brought Essek to the library. His memory even lends him the feeling of Essek’s hands and the sound of his low voice whispering secrets of heresy under his breath. And Caleb knows. He should’ve known all along. Master Ikithon has eyes everywhere. His forearms sting with a phantom pain, running down the lines of crystals and scars that he’s accumulated over the years. 

However, the years of training that Caleb’s had does not make him falter.The temptation to quiver before his master is strong, but the mental sight of his newfound friends — the Mighty Nein — makes him grit his teeth and stand strong. Instead of shaking, he stands there with the perfunctorily blank expression on his face that was expected of him. Astrid is better at this than he is, but still, Caleb tries his best. “It was to ensure that they trusted me,” he begins. He does not allow his voice to quaver. “You asked me to carry out a mission, and I am executing the best plan of action that I see before me.”

Ikithon’s gaze remains on Caleb as he hums, “Really now?”

“Yes, Master,” Caleb responds. He has to tamp down the sparks of fire threatening to build up on his fingertips, but he keeps his expression still as snow. “If you would like me to return to some of my duties within the laboratory, then I would be happy to accommodate that request.”

Ikithon raises a brow but turns back to the page. “Very well,” he says as he thumbs through the pages. “I expect more reports and more progress, Bren. However, I do hear from Oremid that you are doing a good job at integrating yourself with that group.” He pauses but does not look up. “Make us proud, Bren.”

Caleb nods but does not say a word. When it’s clear that Ikithon has nothing to say to him anymore, he takes his leave. His Vollstrecker uniform feels heavy on his shoulders, and the sudden spark of fear from that conversation leaves him all jumpy. Vergessen still feels cold, and now, he allows a few sparks to flare up and warm his skin. He stands at the edge of the steps leading up to the back door of the sanatorium and stays still save for the fire flickering over his skin. 

Nothing burns, but he still feels _cold._

* * *

Essek stands, floating in his usual manner above the wooden floorboards. It is a habit born out of years of needing to impress, and the sensation of casting this kind of magic was always accompanied by that same, desperate need to prove himself. However, he’s not trying to prove anything here, and rather than a need to impress, it is out of sheer habit. He couldn’t be more comfortable, here among his friends.

Essek leans casually against the wall as he watches Jester try to teach Yasha how to play a new card game that she learned from some tavern in Rexxentrum. Beau glances up and drawls, “So, Essek, you’ve been hanging out with that librarian a whole lot. What’s your read on him?” 

Essek shrugs. “He is a librarian and a wizard,” he says. “That lends him inherent curiosity and a certain degree of intelligence. His occupation suits him quite well in that regard.”

“Sounds almost like you,” Beau muses. “I could see both of you studying and working on spells or some shit like that in some library corner.” She turns back to look at Jester and Yasha but continues, “Fjord and I thought that he was some shifty guy, but he seems to be loosening up. He’s getting friendlier.”

Yasha looks up from her cards, and with a small, soft smile, she says, “Beau is right. He does sound like you. You’re smiling and laughing more often now.”

“Yeah, Jester’s charm never fails to wear anyone down,” Beau laughs. “Not for you or for Caleb.”

Essek blinks a bit at that. He didn’t realize that he’d changed, and his first instinct is to deny it. However, he realizes that he’s been smiling the entire time that he’s been here in this room. It’s not only today either. It’s for every meal, every trip, every meeting, every encounter. Even now, he realizes that the corners of his lips are ever so slightly turned upwards. 

He coughs a little bit but tries to recover by saying, “It is quite difficult to resist the charms of someone who constantly sends messages at strange hours of the day to inquire about how one’s bowel movements are doing."

Jester looks over her shoulder to flash him her classic winning grin and tells him, “It’s _very_ important!! That’s why I always make sure to ask you about it.”

Yasha nods and says rather solemnly, “Yes, pooping is very important.”

Beau laughs out loud at that, but she recovers her composure and gestures vaguely to the window where the sunlight streams through, bright and bold. “Yeah, yeah, but anyways, Dairon’s still going to look into him,” she says. “They’re always like, ‘it’s so off to have the King’s representation be a librarian’, blah blah blah, and yeah, it kinda makes sense. Weird to have the king want someone from the Assembly’s schools rather than someone from his own court, you know?”

Essek stares at Beau and feels something unravel at the center of his chest.

There is a common tale that is told to children in the Dynasty. It is the tale of a spider weaving a web but forgets to make one loop. Over time, it unravels and allows the spider to fall and plunge through the air before hitting the ground. The moral of the story was largely about being careful, but Essek’s umavi always told him that it also applied to the loss of the Luxon too. To lose the Luxon was to slip one loop from the larger weave and lose countless lives in the balance. 

Essek always figured that the moral of the story never really stuck with him as a child since he took the first chance he got to take the Luxon, but as he stares at Beau, he thinks that this might be how the spider felt as it tumbled through the air. There is something terrifying and horrifying in finding the missing loop. 

He needs to warn Caleb. A part of Essek knows that he cannot let this unravel because it would hurt him, but another smaller part of him tells him that he needs to do this because he cares about Caleb as well. He doesn’t know when Caleb shifted from being part of their mutually assured destruction to being someone that he genuinely cared about. It seems as though Essek is talented at finding friends in the enemies of his nation, but there is something more to it when he thinks about Caleb compared to the rest of the Mighty Nein that he can’t quite parse out. 

He thinks he knows what the answer is, but he refuses to linger on the thought until he is alone and safe in his own solitude.

Beau still waits for his response, so Essek tries, “I do not think that this is particularly necessary. He seems to be firmly in the king’s favor and continuously advocates for what King Dwendal wants in the negotiations. If anything, Oremid Hass negotiates more for the Assembly than Caleb Widogast does.” 

“Better to be safe than sorry, I guess,” Beau says with a slight shrug. “I don’t think Dairon’s going to find much since he seems pretty normal? But yeah, they’re on that. We might hear back from them before the next negotiation.”

Essek does not reply save for a nod. He does not trust his voice enough to say anything without a stutter, and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

Yasha and Jester return to their game, and Beau continues to make jokes and laugh as Yasha and Jester play. 

Essek stands there, cold and stiff and still.


	9. Chapter 9

Bren sheds his Vollstrecker coat, and it slips off his shoulders and falls on the floor, like a crushed chrysalis around him. He stares at it and wonders when this new metamorphosis came upon him. Was it in the middle of the night? Was it something that was stirring inside him for a longer time than he realized? Was it something that possessed him, changed him, transformed him into a loyal servant of the Empire to a traitor? 

He turns to the mirror and looks at himself. His hair is longer, far longer than Master Ikithon would ever allow it, and he hasn’t shaved in weeks. However, his dark circles are lighter and he finds that he can see more of the gold in his ruddy hair than he’s ever been able to see before. His change is undeniable, but he prays that it’s not as visible to others as it is to him.

Bren reaches for a short piece of copper wire from his drawers and goes through the motions. He shuts his eyes and pictures Essek in his mind’s eye as he says, “I believe my master may be onto us. The situation may become dire.”

The response is quick and immediate. “The Cobalt Soul is also looking for you. We will have to discuss this before the truth comes out,” Essek’s voice whispers into Bren’s ear.

Bren’s hands shake, but he twists the copper wire between his thumbs again. “Very well,” he says through Sending. “We can meet in the library again. I assume you know the way?”

“Of course,” Essek replies. “I will see you shortly, Caleb.”   


The use of his name startles Bren, and he finds that he likes the sound of Essek saying that name far more than the sound of Bren’s original name. The only people who call him Caleb are the Mighty Nein and Essek, and although he’s only had the name for a few weeks, he likes it far,  _ far _ more. It’s another one of the unexpected changes that Bren keeps finding in himself. 

He paces away from his drawers and with a click of his heels, he teleports himself to the same location in the library where he first brought Essek. The Shadowhand is already there, quietly floating above the floorboards in front of the Evocation section of the bookshelves. He dips his head towards Bren, and Bren nods back. “So,” he says. “The Cobalt Soul?”

Essek reaches out a hand and twists the mana around them in a bubble. Bren reaches out with his own magic and finds that it is dunamancy. It shimmers and bends under his touch, but it does not fade. “For our privacy,” Essek clarifies. “And yes, the Cobalt Soul. It appears as though Dairon became suspicious.”

“Nearly all members of the Cobalt Soul are like that,” Bren sighs. “It’s almost as if suspicion is a requirement for entry into the Cobalt Soul, whether it be Expositor or Archivist.”

“And the Assembly? Your master?” Essek prompts. 

Bren looks away from Essek, and a small kernel of shame lodges in his throat. “My master,” Bren begins roughly. “He trained me and brought me into the ranks of the Vollstrecker — the agents of the Empire that I am a part of — and he was suspicious of the amount of time I was spending with you and the Mighty Nein. I assured him that it was necessary to ingratiate myself with you. I believe I made a good enough point to convince him, but I do not know how easily the Cobalt Soul will find out that Caleb Widogast is not a real person.”

“If Caleb Widogast is not real, then who is?” Essek asks. His voice is gentle, and his expression shows no sign of judgement. However, Bren still feels the shame in his throat bloom until his cheeks are red with it. 

“Bren,” he says. The name — despite being familiar — tastes acrid on his tongue. “Bren Aldric Ermendrud. It was the name my mother gave me, but it is a name I no longer wish to carry. It is soaked in blood from my duties as part of the Vollstrecker.”

“Bren,” Essek says slowly, rolling the name off his tongue. “You are not the only one with blood on your hands though. I am sure that my duties as Shadowhand have left me with just as much as you, if not more.”

Bren falls silent. He doesn’t know what Essek’s done, but he certainly knows what he’s done. He has an excellent photographic memory. Although it means that he’s never failed a single exam in school, it also means that he has to remember every detail of his job.

Bren can remember the face of the little farmer boy that he had to kill because the boy saw something that he was never meant to see. He can remember the sound of a prisoner begging for her life and if not that, for her child’s life. He can remember the feeling of blood clotting and coagulating on his hands, and he can remember fires engulfing his childhood home.

Astrid always tells him that it’s worth it. Wulf tells him to forget it. Bren always endured it. But now, as Caleb Widogast, he doesn’t know if he can. He finds himself with more venom in his veins than he’s ever realized, and he doesn’t know what to do with the poison that he finds in himself. It feels like something has slipped from his vision, and now, he sees with too much clarity. 

The shame burns, bright and red, on his cheeks and spreads up to his ears. But abruptly, Bren turns to Essek and says, “We have to undergo a test to prove our loyalty to the Empire.”

Essek merely raises a brow and says, “That seems very much like the Empire to do so.”

Bren looks down at his feet and in a soft voice that barely shakes around the edges, he says, “My master once told my class that our parents were traitors to the Empire. One killed hers by poison, the other directly by his hand.”

Essek regards him with a cool look, and although his expression hasn’t changed much in the span of the conversation, now Bren can tell that Essek’s gaze is firmly focused on him. Essek purses his lips and asks, “And how did you kill yours?”

Bren struggles with the words in his mind and tries to piece them together in a way that makes sense to him, in a way that will make sense to Essek. “I set our home on fire,” he says slowly. A brief spark and flicker of flame dances on the edge of his fingertips, and he extinguishes the flame by curling his hand into a fist. “I got my friends to help me bar the door,” he says. “And when they were distracted, I left the windows in the back open. And I watched it all burn.”

“With the windows open,” Essek says in a light voice. 

Bren shuts his eyes and echoes, “With the windows open.”

This is the one thing that he holds onto. The one hope, the one prayer, the one slim chance that his parents might have made it out alive. That he did not murder his parents, that he did not leave them to die, that he listened to the voice of his master over the voice of his small, fragile conscience. He wonders if he would’ve saved them as Caleb and not Bren, regardless of whatever treachery they might have done against the Empire. 

“Well then,” Essek murmurs. “It seems as though the Empire’s Scourgers are not all entirely heartless.”

“We’re not supposed to be,” Bren says, almost helplessly. 

“So, Caleb Widogast or Bren Aldric Ermendrud, whoever you wish to be,” Essek begins.

Bren — no, he’s  _ Caleb _ now — interrupts him and says, “Caleb. I’m Caleb, here, with you, with the rest of…” He swallows hard. “Our friends. I’m Caleb Widogast.”

“Caleb then,” Essek says. He reaches out to carefully caress Caleb’s cheek. Caleb stiffens under Essek’s touch, and Essek pauses before he pulls his hand away. Caleb watches Essek take a small step back to give Caleb more space, but Caleb takes the same step forward and reaches out for Essek’s hand. Essek blinks, but he offers a small, warm squeeze of his hand. 

The squeeze grounds him a little bit, and he holds onto Essek’s hand. They stay like that, quiet save for the sound of their soft breathing. Essek is the first one to speak, and he says, “Caleb, are you going to betray us to the Assembly?”

“No,” Caleb says. The answer slips off his tongue almost immediately, and the speed of it surprises even him. He looks up at Essek. “Are you?”

Essek rubs the pad of his thumb across the top of Caleb’s hand that he hasn’t let go of yet. “No,” he replies. “Although admittedly, my word is the word of a heretic, so I am unsure of how trusting you would be.”

“If your word is the word of a heretic, then mine is the word of a traitor,” Caleb says with a slight chuckle. 

“Well then,” Essek murmurs, low and soft. “It seems as though we are a match well-made then. A traitor and a heretic, caught between an Empire and a Dynasty.”

Caleb squeezes Essek’s hand again and tells him, as if it were a secret, “There is no other heretic I would rather do this with, Shadowhand.”

“Essek,” he corrects. “If we are to go through this together, then just call me Essek.”

Caleb offers him a wan smile. “Essek then,” he says. 

* * *

Essek passed his early years, waiting for his past lives to crack around him like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. While others around him remembered wisps of their former memories, Essek was left with nothing but his own. There was no change in him like there were for others in his cohort, and he had no metamorphosis but his own descent into heresy. 

Still, Essek finds that he is changing now more than ever. He knows that he did not change in the middle of the night, that it was not a possession or a transformation that happened in a matter of seconds. No, this was a change long in its reckoning, and he knows that it began precisely when the Mighty Nein entered Xhorhas and landed their meddling, curious selves right in the middle of his heresy. Their friendship turned him soft, and it made him realize that he could yearn for something else other than apostasy. 

Now, he’s floating in the middle of an Assembly library, holding the hand of the same Vollstrecker that took the Luxon from him. Fate, if it ever existed, had a fickle way of toying with him. He looks towards Caleb and finds that this Assembly dog has a far softer heart than he ever could’ve expected from him.

“So,” he finally says. “How shall we patch this mess together?” 

Caleb wrinkles his brow and asks, “Well, your Queen wants her relic back, doesn’t she?”

“Frankly, I could care less about the beacon. I do not care if it comes back to the Dynasty or not,” Essek says acridly. “It’s not worth anything if people will just blindly worship it. The only stake I have in this matter is if my — our — friends get hurt because of it. I will not have the Bright Queen’s wrath touch them in this matter.”

He looks at Caleb curiously and asks, “Doesn’t your master want it?”

“Yes,” Caleb sighs out. He tips his head up to gaze at the ceiling and says, “We have been studying it nearly every day since we first received it. Master Ikithon is fascinated with it and wants to figure out if there’s any way to turn more of it to our personal use.”

“How much have you studied it?” Essek asks. He’s actually curious about it. As far as he knows, no one in the Assembly is capable of practicing dunamancy, so he’s not sure how far they could’ve gotten in their studies. If he had his own way, he would’ve been the one studying it, but it would be far harder to hide the beacon in his home compared to the Assembly. 

Caleb shrugs. “I’ve spent a fair number of days and nights poring over it,” he admits. “But there isn’t much that I can glean from it other than sensing multiple motes of a certain kind of magic. Much like yours, actually.”

“Would you like to learn?” Essek impulsively asks. “I will have to apologize in advance because I am not nearly as good of a teacher like you have proven yourself to be.”

“No, no, I’m sure you are an excellent teacher,” Caleb hurries to say. “But are you sure?”

Essek can see the excitement gleaming in Caleb’s eyes again. He knows it so well because he’s seen the same look mirrored across his own face many times. It is the look of someone who has such a deep thirst for knowledge that he would do anything for it. For Essek, it was heresy. He suspects that it was the fire for Caleb. Still, he shrugs and says, “I am excellent at dunamancy, but I never quite learned how to teach it well. We can try though. Extend your hand out?”

Caleb reaches his hand out, palm down, and Essek reaches out to turn it so that his palm faces up. He keeps his fingers placed gently on Caleb’s palm and murmurs, “Feel for the strands of possibility.” Essek twists some strands of his own magic and places it right above Caleb’s hand. “Here, this is what they feel like. Much like the beacon, I suspect, yes?”

“Yes,” Caleb says breathlessly. He reaches out for the strand, and with careful concentration, Essek watches as Caleb manages to manipulate a tiny strand. It’s infinitesimal, really, but it’s impressive that Caleb managed it so quickly after seeing it.

“You learn quickly,” Essek comments.

Caleb looks up at him, and his eyes are bright and warm. “Thank you,” he says. There’s a slight quaver on the last syllable, but he returns back to trying. He can’t quite reach for the strand of possibility like he was able to do earlier, but Essek still remains impressed. 

Caleb’s magic starts to flicker and flare around the edges, much like the evocation training that he must be used to, and Essek settles his own magic around it. The cool touch of his magic makes Caleb’s fire sizzle, but then it settles down and follows the patterns of Essek’s magic. The quiet, calm swirls and eddies of their mana pool around them, and Essek finds himself saying, “No matter what happens, I will do my best to ensure that you and the rest of our friends escape this unscathed.”

“And what about you?” Caleb asks.

Essek gives him a facsimile of a smile. “That remains undetermined,” he tells Caleb.

Caleb’s magic sputters back up into fire, and he reaches out to grab Essek’s hands with an iron grip. “My peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake,” he says with startling iron in his voice. “But this time, it will be different, I promise you.”

“And what will you do when the Cobalt Soul finds that you are part of the Assembly and when my Queen finds out that I am a heretic?” Essek challenges. 

Caleb shakes his head, and now, Essek can see the fire glimmering in the wizard’s eyes. “It will be different,” he repeats. The fire leaps up around him and dances along his hands, climbs up his forearms, and burns around his shoulders. “It will be different.”

* * *

Caleb throws open the door to Astrid’s boudoir, heedless of the frantic servants behind him. Astrid sits on the edge of her chair, still dressed in her Assembly robes and her hair still neatly combed and coiffed. 

“Bren—”

Caleb cuts Astrid off by saying, “Astrid, remember what we talked about?”

The slight surprise on Astrid’s face immediately melts off into a focused, hard expression, and she replies cautiously, “About Master Ikithon?”

“Yes,” Caleb says. His voice hitches, but whether it's from fear or excitement, he cannot tell. He stretches his hand out to Astrid, palm up, as he says, “I’ll help you. I’ll help you take down Master Ikithon.”

A smile begins to slowly spread Astrid’s lips wide, and she reaches out to firmly shake Caleb’s hand. “I knew you’d come around, Bren, I knew it,” she says, low and soft. 

Caleb’s grip tightens on Astrid’s hand, and he says, “I have a few requirements.”

Astrid pulls him out of her boudoir and ushers him to her private quarters as she laughs, “Of course, Bren. Let’s have a talk.”

Her hand is cold around Caleb's wrist, but his skin burns with the fire simmering underneath.


	10. Chapter 10

Caleb sits on the edge of his seat, feeling his loyalty crack apart, piece by piece.

Astrid paces in front of him, and he can see her excitement clear as day. “Alright, alright, Wulf already agreed to help,” she says, her voice nearly manic in the way she speeds from word to word. “And I’m certain that Owelia and the rest of the new graduates would follow my suit.” Her eyes harden. “After all, I trained them more and  _ better _ than Ikithon ever did for us.”

“Has it been worth it?” Caleb suddenly asks. 

Astrid pauses and stares at him. The look in her eyes is strange, as if she’s realized that she’s looking at a different person rather than someone she’s known her whole life. 

Caleb clarifies, “Has all our work been worth it if we’re just going to do this in the end? Does this not make us traitors?” 

Her expression softens, and some of the familiarity returns to her. “To be gifted in a world filled with hardship like this is do things that we’re not proud of,” she tells him. “To question the choices we make, to regret things we wish we could change, to make more choices with the doubt that we have. This is one of them.”

Astrid steps towards him and reaches for his hands, cupping her cold fingers around them. She even kneels so that her eyes are level with Caleb’s own. “I will not think nor will I lament the things that I regret, but I know that the things I — and you and Wulf and the others — do are worth it,” she whispers. “We are the chosen few who made and will continue to make the hard choices so that the people we protect don’t have to. We are the few that have the will to do it, and we both know that Trent Ikithon is aging past his prime. He no longer serves the same kind of purpose nor does he have the same kind of sharpness as he once did. Taking him out is a mercy more than anything else.”

“Really?” Caleb says. His hands curl in, choking out the fire inside them. “Is our master aging or is your ambition growing?”

Astrid rises and lets go of his hands as she says, “They do not have to be mutually exclusive.”

Caleb purses his lips but does not say anything. He takes his leave from Astrid’s home and returns to his small room. Frumpkin is on his bed, tail swishing back and forth, and gazes at him with nary a blink. His Vollstrecker coat still lies on the floor, and Caleb throws it back into his closet without bothering to hang it up. He shuts the door firmly and then leans against the closet door to close his eyes. He slides down until he’s slumped on the floor. 

A few minutes later, he can feel the weight of Frumpkin crawling into his lap and the sound of his purring. Caleb cracks open an eye to see Frumpkin still gazing at him, and he murmurs, “Oh, what have I gotten myself into?”

Frumpkin kneads his paws into Caleb’s thighs and meows.

“I know, Frumpkin,” he sighs. “I know.”

He has spent his entire life in service to the Empire. He now finds himself crossing the threshold from loyalty to treachery, but the only thing he can think about right now are the faces of the Mighty Nein and Essek. 

“Caleb?” Jester’s voice suddenly says out loud. Caleb startles, but Jester’s disembodied voice continues, “We’re going to have dinner soon. Do you want to come over? Fjord and Yasha made sandwiches, and Beau helped me make little pies!”

A small, weak smile crosses faintly over Caleb’s face as he replies, “Of course. I will be there shortly.”

For once, he does not teleport to the Mighty Nein, and instead, he begins the long walk. Step by step, he makes his way to the rest of his friends. His body feels heavy, and at times, it is the press of Frumpkin against his ankles that keeps him walking forward. 

He arrives at the Mighty Nein’s residence with sweat beading on the back of his neck. Fjord is the one to open the door this time, and he blinks at the sight of Caleb. “Did you run here?” he asks. 

Caleb looks down at Frumpkin before he musters up a weak smile. “Yes?” he says before he strides in. Fjord just looks at him with a bemused smile and shrugs before he follows after Caleb. 

The smell of dinner is redolent in the house, and it makes Caleb’s stomach growl. He can smell the sweet scent of something baking — likely Jester’s work — and some roasted meats. Caduceus is setting out a few dishes of roasted vegetables and salads on the table, and Yasha is placing a vase of wildflowers in the center of the table. Nott comes in with wine glasses for everyone, but the one that she places beside her own plate is noticeably larger than everyone else’s. 

Everyone is smiling and laughing and chattering, save for Caleb. He looks up and meets Essek’s gaze. The Shadowhand’s expression softens at the sight of him, and he floats over to Caleb. He folds his hands in front of his silver-stitched robes and says, “I hope the trip here wasn’t too inconvenient for you, Caleb.”

Caleb likes the sound of his new name on Essek’s lips. More than he expected, quite frankly. He shrugs. “I find myself coming here more often than not,” he replies. “The route is familiar to me now.”

“Did you walk or did you teleport?”

Caleb glances down at Frumpkin and wipes the sweat from the back of his neck. “I find that I’ve been enjoying the stroll more often,” he replies.

Essek raises a brow at that and says lightly, “Don’t over-exert yourself.” 

Caleb chuckles. “It is never an exertion to come see you, Essek,” he tells the Shadowhand. To his surprise, that earns him a slight blush across Essek’s cheeks. The edges of his cheeks tinge purple, and he averts his gaze for a brief second. 

“I-I believe it is time for dinner soon,” Essek says as he fumbles with his long sleeves. He turns to float towards the dinner table. Caleb watches him go with some bemusement; he doesn’t quite know what got Essek all flustered like that. 

Caleb takes a seat, and as per usual, he lets himself blind himself to his troubles by indulging in this newfound thing. He hesitates to call it friendship when he is nothing more than a wolf in their midst: meant to be their downfall rather than their “friend.” But like every other dinner before this one, Caleb allows himself to indulge, comforted by his secret alliance with Astrid. 

Yasha passes Jester the platter with roasted vegetables on it and asks, “Beau, why were you at the Archive today?” 

Beau pours some more ale into Nott’s tankard before filling up her own, and after taking a long gulp from it, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Dairon’s still looking for their information,” she says. Her gaze flickers over to him before she settles her gaze firmly on Essek who is seated beside him. “And in the meantime, I wanted to check in on some reports from the borders.”

“Any news?” Caduceus asks.

Beau’s expression darkens. “More dead,” she says in a brusque manner. “The usual. It’s a war, after all.”

“Sometimes, we spend so much time focusing on Tharizdun that I forget that there’s a war,” Jester sighs. “It would be really nice if they could just, you know, set their fighting aside so we can focus on the real danger for a little bit.” 

“They had the real danger right under them and they’re still fighting,” Fjord says. He rolls his eyes. “An entire cathedral was destroyed and one of their Assembly employees was implicated in it too. And still they keep fighting.”

Caleb stares at his plate. He knows very well what is going on. There are some of his brothers and sisters sent on missions to infiltrate the Dynasty. There are some that hunt the countryside, in pursuit of secret agents and people with too much information in their heads. Caleb — no, Bren — did them as well. His mouth pinches together, and he wonders if he would’ve ever been sent to kill the Mighty Nein.

He tries to marshal his composure together, and he resumes eating. Still, he’s distracted, even to the point where he accidentally agrees when Jester invites him over for a sleepover. He’s startled at her loud cheer, and he almost knocks over her goblet full of juice. Essek catches it with a flare of dunamancy just in time, letting the juice and the goblet stop, frozen in time.

“Thanks!” Jester chirps. She carefully sloshes the still juice back into her goblet, and Caleb watches — no,  _ feels _ — Essek’s magic slowly loosen its hold over the object. It’s almost like the ebb of the tides. A far cry from the quick-snap flare of a fire or the slow drip of poison. Those are the things that Caleb knows far better, and he sighs. 

“You okay?” Jester asks. 

Caleb startles forward, but Jester snatches her goblet back. “Geez, Caleb,” she tsks. “Be careful! Don’t worry so much. We  _ like _ having you over. Stay over, okay?”

Under the table, he feels the brush of cold fingertips. He glances over at Essek, and Essek gives a nearly imperceptible nod before he gently squeezes Caleb’s hand. Caleb’s lips twitch up into the smallest of smiles, and he nods.

Later, Jester and Yasha show him the spare room that they’ve prepared for him. Jester chatters about the color of the comforter — burgundy — and how it matches his scarf and how she’s so excited for him to stay over. Caleb tries to hide his yawn. It’s been a long day for him. Yasha is far more keen though, and she raises her brow at him. 

“We’ll be in the main room if you need us, and if we’re all asleep, you know where our rooms are,” she says, slow and soft. A smile curls across her lips, and when Caleb looks at her, he doesn’t understand how he used to think she was a cold and stoic individual. 

Jester cocks her head to the side before she catches Yasha’s gaze and nods. “Yeah, yeah,” she chimes in. “I’ll be painting my nails pink before I go to bed, so feel free to stop by any time.”

Caleb offers up a smile that he  _ knows _ is too weak, is too feeble, but he’s too tired to muster up more strength to try. He turns towards his bed and waits until Yasha and Jester close to sink down on it. There’s a set of pajamas that Jester must have laid out for him, but he doesn’t bother changing. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes; it becomes immaterial to him. Instead, he stares at the empty darkness of his room. He thinks about his brothers and sisters spread across the continent, sent to do deeds that are too dark for others to do. He thinks about the blood on his hands, the treachery on his lips, the lives he’s taken, a window that was left ajar while the walls burned around it. He stares out and wonders how he can ever fall asleep again. 

Caleb thinks back to his parents, and his hands catch on nervous fire as he thinks about the spark he sent flying towards the straw hatching of the roof. He wonders if they were even traitors to the Empire. These are deadly thoughts, but he’s already taken the first steps in Astrid’s plan. He shouldn’t have any loyalty to Trent Ikithon anymore, but those ties are so hard to shake. He tries to search through his memories of that specific time, but all of them seem to feel slippery and hard to fully grasp.

Caleb buries his face in his hands, and now, the fire sparking on his fingertips spreads down his forearms and around his shoulders. The fire doesn’t hurt and doesn’t spread beyond his body. He’s spent far too many years honing his own skill to let his own fire burn him, but now, he wishes that he could simply shrivel away like the ashes that he’s left behind.

But he can’t. He has a new mission now. He has to fulfill Astrid’s plan in order to keep the Mighty Nein, to keep  _ Essek _ safe, in this nest of lies that so many people have woven around him. Besides, if he dies now, it doesn’t atone for any of the lives that he’s ended or the crimes that he’s committed in the name of the Empire. Caleb’s seen prisoners scrabble at anything to cut their lives short in the face of execution. It’s what he’s been taught to do: to die on his own terms rather than to be the cowardly fool who gives into interrogation by the enemy. But he can’t die now. He can’t burn away now. He has the Mighty Nein now.

The sound of the door creaking open startles him, and he can hear Jester’s soft gasp. “Oh,  _ Caleb,” _ he hears her say.

However, the first touch he feels is not the touch of Jester’s hand but rather, of Essek’s dunamancy. Caleb looks up to see Essek’s face. His lips are pinched tight and his eyes are solely focused on Caleb, but he keeps his hands outstretched and around Caleb without touching. The silvery thread of his magic weaves around Caleb’s golden fire, and quietly, like the touch of moonlight, Essek puts out the fire. 

The bedframe and the sheets smoke, and the grey of it curls around Caleb’s body and Essek’s hands. The color of the smoke blends into Essek’s skin, but his eyes are still that bright violet-blue in the midst of it all. He looks at Caleb, and finally, he says, “Caleb.” Nothing more, nothing less. Just his name. His new name.

Caleb sags into Essek’s hands, and Essek hesitantly curls his arms around Caleb’s head. His touch is wavering but gentle, and Caleb leans into the cool fabric of Essek’s robe. He breathes in and out, and for the first few breaths, all he can taste is fire. Then, he tastes air and Essek’s clean scent. 

“I’m here,” Essek murmurs.

Caleb shuts his eyes and repeats, “I’m here.”

* * *

Essek sits on the edge of his seat, feeling his loyalty crack apart, piece by piece.

He settles his hands on his lap, hiding the places where the fabric is scorched and dusted with soot. The soot settles on the grooves of his fingerprints, and it makes him remember the heat of Caleb’s fire as it licked around him. It was blisteringly hot, but to Essek’s surprise, it didn’t leave a single burn on his dusk-grey skin. 

Essek rubs the soot between his index finger and thumb, and it distinctly reminds him of a story that Caleb told once.  _ I set our home on fire. I got my friends to help me bar the door, and when they were distracted, I left the windows in the back open. And I watched it all burn. _

But he left the window open. This Assembly dog who was supposed to have his conscience stamped out in the name of the Empire wavered, and Essek wonders how that ever could have happened. Did Caleb feel the same kind of shattering inside himself? Did he feel the same kind of confusing, infuriating shard of loyalty beginning to curdle inside him as well? Essek doesn’t know if it tasted the same as his heresy, but he’s sure that his newfound loyalty to the Mighty Nein surely must feel the same. Perhaps Caleb felt it last night when the fire roiled and crackled around him in a sea of searing pain. But Essek cannot do anything else but wonder. 

Negotiations continue around him, as if nothing has changed. The sunlight blazes through the window, and the light slices across the table, evenly dividing them in half. From his childhood, he remembers being taught that the moon was the kindest in the sky, that the sun was nothing more than cruel, bold fire hanging in the sky. Right now, Essek finds the delineation of sunlight almost comforting.

Essek can’t help but quietly laugh at himself. Look at him. He’s turning silly and soft. Sunlight being comforting is such a far cry from what he used to think. Then again, Essek finds him re-evaluating many things that he once thought was normal and fine. He used to be a heretic, but now, he tastes regret on his tongue.

Under half-lidded eyes, Essek surveys the room and again, finds his loyalty to the Bright Queen in tatters. Oremid and Dairon are tired. Their exhaustion etches itself into their faces in the form of deepened creases along their brow and darkened circles ringing their bloodshot eyes. Caleb looks very much the same, but there are a few scorches along his coat that only he and Jester would know of. Jester is surprisingly chipper and adds in a few laughs and jokes here and there, but when she thinks no one is looking, she stares off into the distance with a somber expression.

Still, Caleb and Essek continue this farce of theirs, trading words that they know are meaningless. The conversation runs in circles over and over again, about trade and reparations and prisoners of war and the numbers of the dead lying stiff and still in their past battlefields. 

Essek continues to talk. His lips move, but his thoughts race over and over on a separate track. Instead of thinking about the orders that the Bright Queen gave him, he thinks about the Luxon. When he held it in his hands, it looks so dull and grey, but when he reached his magic inside, he felt so much possibility there. It was something that he had never felt before, but now, as he looks at the Mighty Nein and Caleb, he thinks that this might be something similar. 

He seizes that feeling in hand, and instead of circling back to the discussion of war, he says instead, “Perhaps, if you are so concerned with the Dynasty’s trust and reputation, we will allow a select few of the Cobalt Soul to travel within Xhorhas.” 

That sentence alone startles everyone at the table. Dairon and Beau lean forward, eyes bright with sudden hope, and Caleb looks to Essek with confusion deep in his brow. Oremid furrows his brow and steeples his hands together with a grim kind of stoicism. Essek doesn’t let that faze him though. He continues, “Of course, they would be accompanied with Kryn guides. Xhorhas is dangerous and has many new dangers that those of the Empire may not be necessarily be aware of. However, I am willing to extend this service to the Cobalt Soul, and by extension, the Empire as a sign of the Dynasty’s trust in these negotiations.”

Yasha looks over to Essek before she quietly clears her throat and adds, “Yes. Xhorhas can be quite mucky. The marshes can get…. Rough.” Her voice is rare at the table. Usually, Yasha stays quiet and silent, and she seems more of an overseer of the negotiations rather than an active participant. They all know that, and Oremid seems to take her input more seriously.

However, Oremid’s eyes still narrow and he says, “So you would extend this privilege over to the Cobalt Soul but not the Assembly?”

Beau shoots Oremid a dirty look, but Essek replies smoothly, “Perhaps the Assembly can be allowed access after they return our Luxon to our shrines, and perhaps, then we can come to an agreement about the Assembly studying our Luxon. Let us take these small steps towards a better mutual understanding, or are you trying to get ahead of yourself, Archmage Hass?”

“Of course not,” Oremid harrumphs. He folds his arms, scattering more dust across the table, and settles for studying Essek’s countenance for any cracks. 

For the rest of the negotiations, Essek plays the usual game of running around in circles, but Caleb now looks at him curiously every now and then. Dairon and Beau become far more open and accommodating to the Bright Queen’s demands, but otherwise, negotiations continue as usual. Nothing changes, nothing moves forward. Every word rings hollow in his ears, and he  _ knows _ that Oremid and Dairon must surely know the same. Still, they carry on in their game of pretend.

When their meeting comes to a close, Dairon is the first to stand up. However, before they leave, they brush their hand over Beau’s shoulder and say quietly, “Do come along.”

Beau casts a quick glance to the rest of them before she turns back to Dairon and nods. She follows Dairon out, and Oremid gathers up his robes to leave as well. The Mighty Nein begin to file out as well, but Caleb stays standing by the table. 

“Why would you give it up?” Caleb asks once everyone takes their leave.

“Give up what?” Essek repeats, in an effort to play dumb.

Caleb shakes his head. “Those privileges,” he says as he goes around the table towards Essek. “Why would you give up something like that so quickly? Your queen obviously wants none of us into your country, and your queen would be livid at the idea of any of us even touching your beacon.”

Essek exhales out a long, slow breath before he admits, “Things were coming to a standstill. I do not want repercussions of this standstill to fall on either your head or our friends’ heads.”

There’s a quiet gasp behind Essek, and he turns to see the Mighty Nein, save for Beau, standing in the doorway with wide eyes. Fjord is the first to speak, and the first word out of his mouth is Essek’s own name. He’s not sure what to do with the proof of his own breaking loyalty being revealed so brightly in open daylight, and the tips of his pointed ears flush dark violet. 

Essek turns to Caleb and murmurs, “You should know this best. After all, it is the same reason why you do the things you do right now.”

Without waiting for Caleb’s response, he turns to flee. He shoulders past the Mighty Nein, and his throat feels tight. He knows what he’s doing. He’s known all this time that he was walking a dangerous line between loyalty to the Bright Queen and his own machinations, but now, he knows that he’s declared a firm side and that side is not the Bright Queen’s. Now that it’s been spoken out loud, it seems more terrifying than the day he carried the Luxon out of Xhorhas and to the hands of the Assembly.

But he is here now, and he has made his stand. So has Caleb.

This is the fate that he must face now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i've been gone for so long. i had some health complications that took up a lot of time, and i couldn't write for a while. i've fallen terribly behind on critical role, so i'm afraid that this fic is now entirely AU. thanks for all your patience, and hope you enjoy the new chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> imagine the drama and the sheer comedy of having vollstrecker caleb and shadowhand essek making eye contact while the m9 is there and having a moment where they're both like "i recognize you we're rly in for it now huh"


End file.
